


Seven More - a continuation of Sevenmas

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 162,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to Sevenmas. Sansa and Sandor remain at the castle while most of the court is on a hunting party. AU to events in AGOT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was walking down the hall behind her. The soft thumping of his scabbard against his hip seemed in time with the beating of her heart. Prickles scurried down her back and she walked faster, forcing Arya and Septa Mordane to lengthen their strides as well. The three greeted others passing in the opposite direction, the swish of gowns and the patter of shoes in the stone corridor not obscuring the steady thump-thump-thump in Sansa's ears. She wished she'd not worn the bracelet he'd given her. The gentle tinkling sound would call to him, not that he couldn't see her, tall as they both were. _Don't be silly. You're not being hunted . . ._ yet her body responded as though she were. Her blood practically fizzed and she leaned forward slightly, ready to run as he kept pace behind her. Sansa longed to shake off her companions and sprint to safety but decorum held a tighter grip on her than fear. She forced herself to walk more slowly and to resume proper posture.

 

"Are you quite alright, dear?" Septa Mordane inquired, startling Sansa out of her own thoughts.

 

"Pardon? Oh. Yes. Quite. Thank you."

 

"Your father will be back very soon. As will your betrothed." Septa Mordane smiled at her indulgently, a sparkle in her eye.

 

A guilty heat burned beneath Sansa's cheeks. How her septa had missed the baleful glares her betrothed had sent her way upon his departure for the hunt, she couldn't fathom. Sansa had been certain the entire court felt Joffrey's hatred for her like an intense hot wind.

 

Arya made a noise that sounded like _ickkk_ and took off running, yelling, "See you at supper!" over Septa Mordane's order to return.

 

Sansa gasped as a hand slid under her elbow and a hard torso pressed against the back of her upper arm. She spun away from him, crashing into Septa Mordane, bringing up her arm to push him away, the traitorous bracelet jingling merrily.

 

His gray eyes were unreadable because Sansa was staring at his mouth, her own agape.

 

He'd kissed her last night. No, she'd kissed him. Or, she'd tried to. She'd tried to kiss his _cheek_. He'd turned into her and pressed his lips against hers, parting them, and she'd wilted into him like a spent flower. In an instant, his arms were around her, pulling her against the length of him as he kissed her greedily. A low groan rose in his throat as he took a step back and turned away. Sansa gasped. The current between them was a live thing. "San-" she began with half a breath. He spun, cupped the back of her head, and took possession of her mouth once more. She'd kissed him back, she remembered, feeling caught in an undertow, pulled down by instinct and overwhelmed by his hunger. His kisses grew softer and drifted across her cheek to a spot below her ear. She felt him bring a handful of her hair to his nose and breathe in its scent. Sansa was struggling to respond, too overcome to be other than swept along, and then, before she knew it, he rasped, "Little bird," and was gone.

 

She'd stood where he left her for a long time. If she didn't move, maybe the spell wouldn't be broken. The very late hour conspired against her, though, and, pulling the blanket off the chair she'd dozed in earlier, she made her way to bed. Tired as she was, sleep would not claim her. Instead, memories of the day's events flashed in Sansa's mind. Was it really still Sevenmas? The gift exchange seemed to belong to another time. Her fingertips found the charms at her wrist as she thought of waking to find Sandor watching over her. Her skin tingled pleasantly as she remembered his touch by the fire. Even alone in the dark, Sansa's cheeks flushed when she thought of her response to his rain-clean scent . . . and then there was the kiss they'd just shared. Sansa turned over and buried her face in her pillow. Just the memory of it shook her. Had she been forward? She'd invited Sandor to her room with the promise of a gift. Her father would be so angry if he knew. And her lady mother. Joffrey would be wroth. She was betrothed to him, not his sworn shield. Sansa didn't love Joffrey but that didn't make her actions right. Shame caused her stomach to swing and her breath to hitch in her chest. She had a duty, to herself, her family, and to Joffrey, to comport herself as a lady should and, tonight, she hadn't. Over and above these thoughts, though, were others. Had Sandor liked kissing her? He was a man grown and had undoubtedly kissed women before. Did he find her inadequate? Too eager, or worse, wanton? Had she done something wrong? Why had he left so suddenly? Anxiety welled up inside her. Her jaw trembled and unwanted tears slid along and over the bridge of her nose before seeping into her pillowcase. Sansa flopped over to her other side and curled into a tight ball. Though she was quite alone, she cried as quietly as she could, her shoulders shaking with nearly-silent sobs. She knew she'd been wrong, very wrong, to lead Sandor on, but she also knew, and this set her to crying in earnest, that she would kiss him again if she could.

 

After a time, her tears abated and she sniffed and cuffed at her wet face with the backs of her hands. _I wish my lady mother were here._ Lady Catelyn would stroke her hair and let her pour the misery out of her heart and then she would truly feel better. But her lady mother was not there. There was no one she could talk to. No, _confess_ to, for an all-encompassing guilt consumed her. And now Sandor was to be hers, her sworn shield, until Joffrey returned from the hunt. Just the thought of facing Sandor made her heart crumple. She could send him word to stay away, to enjoy his time as he would, but they would both know that was cowardice after tonight. If only she knew how _he_ felt! A thousand possibilities swirled through Sansa's mind. She could not be confident he'd kissed her because he liked her and not simply because she'd made herself available in the most profligate manner. Her cheeks flamed again. But he'd turned to kiss her, and why would he do that unless he wanted to? On and on this went until near dawn when Sansa finally fell into a shallow, troubled sleep.

 

She'd awoken feeling drained and miserable. When Lucy, her maid, asked if she was well, she'd said she was sad to see her father and Joffrey leaving. It was a half truth. She'd hugged her father tightly before he'd mounted his horse, apologizing silently for the disappointment she knew he'd feel if he knew she'd been kissing the Hound mere hours before. King Robert was in high spirits and eager to be off, though he did take a second to give her a nod, indicating he'd told Joffrey that Sandor was being removed from his service for the duration of he hunt. Prince Joffrey had sneered at her and engaged in a brief but intense conversation with Sandor before mounting and trotting to the front of the assembly. Sansa had turned away immediately, not wishing to catch Sandor's eye. She had returned to the castle as soon as was seemly, ignoring Arya's laments to have been included in the hunt and Septa Mordane's dampening responses. A part of her had wondered if Sandor would seek her out but, now that he had, she had no more dear wish than to be alone.

 

"My apologies, Lady Sansa."

 

"There - there is no need to apologize, my lord," she replied to the floor.

 

Septa Mordane seemed to sense her discomfiture and said pleasantly, "Are you not joining the hunt, ser?"

 

Sansa cringed at the _ser_ but Sandor merely answered, "No, King Robert has assigned me to be Lady Sansa's shield while Prince Joffrey is away."

 

Septa Mordane gasped, her disapproval plain. Embarrassed, Sansa raised her eyes, intending to speak, but she found Sandor's broad chest in her immediate view. Her hands twitched, her palms suddenly recollecting the feel of hard muscle beneath his tunic. She'd not realized until now that she'd pressed her hands against him as he kissed her. Flustered, she cast about for something to say, the pause stretching out unbearably.

 

"Lady Sansa?"

 

She looked into his face, afraid of what she might see or betray.

 

"I'm yours to command."


	2. Chapter 2

"I - I thank you. I'm tired and think I'll rest until the afternoon."

Sandor nodded.

There being nothing else to say, Sansa turned and resumed walking up the hall, Septa Mordane hurrying along after her, Sandor's even steps sounding after them both. Upon reaching the Tower of the Hand, Septa Mordane turned and said in a crisp voice, "Thank you for escorting Lady Sansa, ser. She can reach her room quite safely from here."

Sandor ignored the septa and addressed Sansa directly. "Should I escort your septa to her chambers or stand guard outside your door?"

Sansa could see the look of horror on Septa Mordane's face at the thought of being alone with Sandor so she said, "I believe Septa Mordane has plans to go to the market this morning. There's no need to escort her." She purposely did not ask him to stand guard, but neither did she send him away.

Septa Mordane was nodding along with her words. "Rest well, my dear. I'll meet you and Arya in the dining hall at midday. If you can get her to make herself presentable . . ."

"I'll try. Thank you, septa." 

Septa Mordane cast a worried glance over her shoulder as she left her young charge in the company of the Hound. Sansa continued into the Tower but with every step, the silence weighed more heavily on her. Simple courtesy, if not their recent intimacy, demanded that she acknowledge him.

When they reached her door, Sansa stopped and turned to face Sandor. "I really did mean it when I said you were free to spend your time however you wish. You don't have to guard me."

Sandor looked at her for a beat before saying, "Is that what you want? To be left alone?"

Sansa opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. Her confusion over the previous night surged forth. She thought back to the night she'd accompanied Sandor his on rounds and then, a couple days after that, when he'd told her she'd be safer in the north. He'd been a friend. Then, last night, he'd been more. Denying her attraction was pointless, but she was afraid to lose his friendship. She didn't know how to say that to him, though, and, as the silence stretched out between them, Sandor turned and walked away.

Sansa slipped inside her room and, when Lucy appeared, Sansa immediately turned her back to hide her gathering tears, declaring her intention to take a nap and asking Lucy to undo her laces. As soon as her dress was loosened, she asked Lucy to draw the drapes before she left. Once she was alone, she crawled into bed and was instantly asleep, too tired to analyze her latest misstep. Hours later, she awoke feeling more like herself. Outside of her family, Sandor was the only person in King's Landing with whom she could speak freely. He might be blunt but he was honest. Why had she ever thought he'd kiss her just because he could? She still didn't know what she would say but she needed to talk to him.

With the king and most of the principal members of court gone on the hunt, the midday meal was sure to be a subdued affair. Sansa asked Lucy to have Sandor sent for and began to get dressed, choosing a simple gown and wearing her hair loose. When she was done, Sandor had not yet arrived so she asked Lucy to help her pin her hair up. Sandor still had not arrived and Sansa was beginning to grow embarrassed by his absence. 

"Lucy, I'm going to walk to the dining hall. If San-, if the Hound," she felt bad calling him that, "should arrive, please ask him to find me there."

Sansa descended the steps slowly, wondering what was taking Sandor so long. When she reached the yard, a young boy approached her. He was scarcely able to meet her gaze, though his eyes darted to her face repeatedly through the hair hanging over his forehead. "M'lady?"

Sansa stopped. She'd seen the boy before but didn't know his name. "Yes?"

"I'm Harry, the Hound's squire. Yer maid's boy came for - for the Hound but -," the boy's face grew a deep red. 

"But?" Had something happened? Worry fluttered into Sansa's chest.

"I was coming to tell ya but the guards wouldn't let me in . . ."

"Please tell me now."

Another shade of crimson colored Harry's face. "He can't answer your summons, m’lady." His eyes darted to her again as he added in a whisper, “He's passed out drunk.”

For an instant, Sansa felt her mask of calm detachment slip but quickly covered her disappointment. "Thank you for telling me, Harry."

“I, I wouldna said nothing, I don’t want to get him in trouble, but, you being the Hand’s daughter and calling for him direct, and he said if you sent word I was to find him and –“

“And you did. Please don’t trouble yourself, Harry. Sandor is Prince Joffrey’s sworn shield, not mine.” _He has no obligation to me_ , she added sadly to herself.

The boy dipped his head and hurried off. Sansa continued on her way feeling somehow rejected. She ate her food without tasting it and paid only scant attention to the conversation between Arya, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne Poole. After the meal, she walked the battlements with Jeyne and listened as her friend spoke of her every interaction with Willard, the young man-at-arms who had caught her attention. While Jeyne chattered away, Sansa kept a furtive eye out for Sandor and repeatedly chided herself for doing so. She _had_ told him he could spend his time as he pleased but she'd also grown used to having him around. He'd all but said he wanted to spend the time during the hunt with her yet, when she'd sent for him, he'd not come, preferring instead to drink himself into a stupor. Mortification rippled through her.

"Sansa?"

She looked at her friend and found her looking at her with concern. 

"You don't seem yourself today." Jeyne gasped then and put a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry! I've been talking about Willard and the prince only just left this morning. How you must miss him now that you’ve made up! He's so tall and handsome, and he must care for you a great deal to have left his own sworn shield to protect you, though I confess, I find the Hound very frightening."

Sansa wondered how Joffrey's punishment had turned into a virtue in a span of hours but only said, "He is not as frightening as he looks." _And Joffrey is not as angelic as_ he _looks._

Jeyne looked surprised. "No? Willard says he’s savage with a sword and equally fearsome with a mace or war hammer. Sansa, you should join me to watch them train. Most of the knights are gone on the hunt, it’s true, but that will give the younger men-at-arms more time in the yard and Willard says -”

Later, as Sansa climbed the stairs to her room, she wondered if Sandor would be waiting for her. When he wasn't, her disappointment was keen. After she'd undressed, she lay in bed awake wondering what, if anything, she should do. Maybe he felt just as awkward as she did though he _had_ come to her that very morning - to receive her orders, which wasn't quite the same thing as seeking her out to talk. Either way, she'd neither encouraged him to stay nor sent him away. Sansa pulled in the corner of her mouth. Why was this so _hard_? For a brief moment, she envied Jeyne. She had no wish to hurt Sandor and he surely had no wish to hurt her, yet she couldn’t reconcile her feelings such that her family or Joffrey would not be hurt, either. There was no fair way to parse the pain, and pain there would be if she heeded her feelings rather than her head. She wished she could explain all of this to Sandor. Would he understand or think her a tease? A restless sadness convulsed in her chest.

The next morning dawned clear and bright. _Too clear and bright for the hour_ , Sansa thought as her eyes fluttered open. With a gasp, she realized she'd be expected at the table in a matter of moments. Throwing back the covers, she flew out of bed and ran to get dressed, calling for Lucy as she did so. Septa Mordane had long impressed upon her the importance of punctuality and her heart beat madly as she silently begged Lucy to finish her hair already. That done, Sansa dashed out of the door and down the corridor toward the stairs. As she came bursting into the stairwell, her heart nearly stopped as she realized someone was there and had no doubt heard her loud and unladylike approach. It was Sandor. They were of a height, as Sandor was still a few steps down. He stood still as Sansa pressed a hand to her heart, certain it would pound through her chest.

"Good morning, my lord."

"You sent for me."

"Yesterday." Sansa immediately regretted the word, which sounded accusatory. "I'm sorry." She took a breath. "You startled me. I didn't know anyone was on the stairs."

"You didn't reach for your dagger."

Would nothing ever go right? The dagger he'd given her for Sevenmas was where he'd left it - hidden in the box on her mantel.

"You aren't carrying your dagger." There was something very final about the way he said it.

Sansa looked down. "No, not - not yet. You haven't shown me how to use it yet, my lord."

Sandor leveled a look at her but, after a pause, said, "Today, then."

Happiness rushed through Sansa despite there still being so much to say. "Thank you." She smiled. "Where will you teach me?"

Sandor thought for a moment. "My room. We'll eventually need more space but it will do for now. Do you remember where it is?"

Sansa knew exactly where it was but she could hardly admit its location was forever marked in her mind, having been there only once. "I believe I can find it again."

"Lessons won't do you any good without the dagger."

Sansa nodded and turned back to her room, all thoughts of punctuality forgotten. Sandor stood to the side of the door as she ducked inside to retrieve the blade. 

As they walked back down the corridor, Sandor said in an undertone, "I'll meet you there after you eat. Make sure no one sees you in that part of the castle."

"I will," Sansa answered, taking his arm at the top of the steps. A thrum of excitement seemed to vibrate at her core.

When they exited the Tower of the Hand, Sandor kept a step behind her as they crossed the courtyard. Sansa was immediately aware of a change in the air. People scattered out of their way and seemed to pause until they passed. Sansa felt strong and powerful, backed by Sandor. _No wonder Joffrey likes to have him as his sworn shield._ Then she grimaced. She did not want to be like Joffrey. She turned and commented on the weather, drawing Sandor forward to walk beside her. The people still kept a respectful distance but she was no longer causing a stir, which suited her better.

"You're late," Arya said as soon as her sister arrived.

"I apologize. I overslept," Sansa said, seating herself as Sandor took up a place against the wall.

"How long do you have to have his ugly face hanging around?" Arya asked, shooting a glare at Sandor.

Sansa gave her sister a look. "It was very considerate of Prince Joffrey -"

Arya groaned and rolled her eyes. Septa Mordane tutted and went on at length about propriety while neither sister truly attended her. The meal lasted longer than Sansa cared for, being that Arya and Septa Mordane were both well into their eggs by the time she'd arrived. As she sipped her tea, Sansa wondered how best to avoid them for a few hours. "Arya, it's a beautiful day out. Would you like to join me in the godswood?"

Arya looked startled. "No, thank you," she glanced at the septa, "I have my first dancing lesson this morning."

Sansa hadn't known that, betting, instead, on Arya's reluctance to sit in quiet prayer, but it was just as well. Septa Mordane, of course, followed the Seven. When Sansa rose, Sandor approached. "I'm going to the godswood." Sandor pressed his lips into a flat line, though whether it was in good humor or in bad, Sansa wasn't sure. "Please-" She'd never had a servant who was expected to follow her around all day. What was the proper dismissal? "Please be prepared to escort me to the evening meal." There. That sounded ... sufficient. Sandor nodded and walked off in the direction of the kitchens.

Sansa made her way to the main entrance, stopping here and there to exchange a few words. She headed in the general direction of the godswood, surreptitiously trying to determine if anyone was paying attention to her movements. Eventually she ducked into a corridor that led her deeper into the Red Keep, her heart pounding madly the entire time. She came across some servants taking down Sevenmas decorations but turned into an intersecting hallway before they saw her. After several minutes, she was finally in the vicinity of Sandor's room. The dog who'd been laying outside of Sandor's door the night she'd walked his rounds with him was in the hallway and bounded toward her playfully. Sansa smiled and pulled out the bacon that she'd slipped into her pocket during breakfast. The dog licked her hand, gobbled down the treat, and looked at her with joyful expectation, tail wagging frantically. "That's all I've got!" she laughed. _This time_ , she added to herself. 

She looked at Sandor's door. Was he there already? Should she knock or would that draw attention? What if he - ? Suddenly the dog yipped and scampered down the hall, the noise that drew his notice reaching Sansa a moment later. Without another thought, she opened the door and slipped into Sandor's room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** special thanks to Westeroswolf for seeing to it that Sansa fights fair. :-)

As the door shut behind her, Sansa saw a tunic drop over the last few inches of a muscular, clefted lower back that was cut off by a pair of well-fitting, low slung breeches. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as Sandor's head whipped around.

"I'm - I'm so sorry," Sansa sputtered, still seeing the flash of his bare skin in her mind. "Someone was coming."

Sandor looked like he might have a retort for that but he said nothing as he gathered his old tunic and the light armor he'd been wearing earlier and put them aside. Only then did he approach her. "Take out your dagger."

Sansa reached into her pocket but the leather sheath didn't slide easily against the fabric of her dress and the depth of her pocket made it difficult to retrieve.

"Gods, girl, you'd be half fucked before you got that knife out of your pocket."

Sansa recoiled as though she'd been slapped. "I'm sorry -"

"Not as sorry as you would be -"

"Am I to just walk around with it in my hand, then?"

"Did I say -"

"No! You haven't said anything except -"

"I said I'd show you how to use it. If you don't want to -"

"I _want_ to." He'd been almost tender the night he'd kissed her and now . . . The difference in his demeanor made her feel foolish. "Why are you being so _mean_?"

"I'm not mean, it's-"

"It's the world that's mean, I know," she snapped.

"It's not the song you think it is."

"That's not the only thing that isn't what I think it is."

"What else, then, little bird? Tell me. Tell me what else disappoints you." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I didn't say _anything_ disappointed me." 

"No, you didn't, did you? You didn't say _anything_." He took a firm hold of her jaw and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. "Nothing but the pretty little words your septa taught you to say."

Sansa jerked her chin out of his hand. "Better pretty words than empty promises."

"I've kept my promises to you, girl. You're here, aren't you?"

"I'm here but where were you yesterday?"

Sandor drew up to his full height and glared at her. She held his eye and waited for an answer. After a long pause he said, "You know where I was. Harry told me he talked to you."

"It wasn't Harry I wanted to talk to."

"What did you want to talk about?"

_Your kiss. You. Me. Joffrey. My father. My lady mother. My honor. My duty. Your intentions. The danger we're both in now._

"Little bird. What did you want to talk about?" He sounded resigned and, if Sansa wasn't wrong, a little sad.

"You kissed me!"

Confusion flickered across his face. He opened his mouth to speak but Sansa rushed on.

"You kissed me and I kissed you back and I'm promised to Joffrey and -"

"And you feel guilty and don't want it to happen again -"

"I -" Sansa's face absolutely burned as she searched for the strength to tell him the truth. 

"Listen, girl, I shouldn't -" Sandor began to say as Sansa blurted out, "I feel guilty because I _do_ want it to happen again!" Her hand flew to cover her mouth as her eyes grew wide with shock. She could not believe she'd said such a thing. Her hand began to tremble as shame flooded her. With wet eyes and a wobbling jaw, she looked at Sandor who stood frozen before her, an uncomprehending expression on his face.

An eternity might have passed before he said quietly, "Leave the dagger sheathed."

"I won't hurt you."

"Leave it sheathed so you don't hurt yourself."

Sansa straightened up and took a steadying breath.

"Let's see your stance."

Sansa was confused by his light tone but planted her feet shoulder-width apart and held the dagger blade-up as though she were carrying a torch.

It was clear from his smirk that her technique was dismal. "Maybe you should just yell for help."

Sansa's shoulders dropped and she cocked her head to the side. "If you can't -"

"I can."

"Show me."

Sandor walked behind her and Sansa stiffened, waiting for his hands to rest on her somewhere. Instead he kicked her left heel, sending her foot jutting forward as her arms shot out to the sides to keep herself from falling.

"You should stand with one foot in front. It'll let you attack or retreat as needed. If your feet are side-by-side, you'll stay within your attacker's range."

That made sense. Sansa nodded to show she understood.

After a pause, Sandor took the dagger from her and placed it on the table. He returned to stand behind her and she realized he'd moved closer as his breath stirred the hair on top of her head and a masculine scent filled her nose. Today he smelled of soap tinged with the lye the castle laundry used for de-lousing. Under that, though, was the scent of _him_. Sansa inhaled deeply. Crisp air? The woods? She couldn't place it. Sandor was so silent and still that Sansa turned to inquire what was next. As she did so, his arms came around her, crossing over her middle, and he took a hold of her hands. For a moment neither moved though Sansa was aware of his breathing, his chest pressing gently against her back and head. 

"Am I supposed to be trying to get away?"

"Only if you want to." He uncrossed his arms, pulling her around to face him. "Or did you mean what you said?" He bent down and kissed her softly.

Whatever Sansa's concerns had been, the feel of his mouth on hers drove them away. She pulled down on his hands and stood on tip-toe to reach him better. Sandor bent down lower to wrap his arms around her, her own going around his neck, before he crushed her against him, lifting her from the floor as he stood tall again. Sansa tingled all over, nearly laughing from the shivers running over her skin and the relief that flooded her. 

That was short-lived, however, as Sandor began to walk toward his bed. She broke the kiss, her breath ragged, her mind panicked. Did he think . . . ? She couldn't!

Gently, he lowered her on the bed, his knee beside her hip, his other foot on the floor, straddling her. His hands were on either side of her head as he lowered his mouth to hers again, his long black hair spilling down around her, his scent stealing over her. He sipped at her lips and she tentatively kissed him back, afraid of his expectations. She stole glances at him and he eyed her warily, as though she might suddenly evaporate. Soon, his kisses deepened and his hand moved to caress the side of her face as he sank down onto his side, his other leg still crossing Sansa's thighs. 

Sansa could not relax. When his hand moved to her waist and pressed her toward him, she turned her face away. "San -"

"Just this," he said in a raspy whisper, brushing his knuckles along her jaw, bringing her lips back to his.

Sansa let out a breath and allowed herself to sink back against the pillow. Sandor adjusted himself next to her, drawing his leg past her so he was on his side while Sansa remained on her back. He brought a hand to the back of her head and she turned onto her side, resting a hand on his massive upper arm. _He looks almost drowsy_ , Sansa thought to herself, wondering if she looked the same. An instant later, he was kissing her again and she felt something bump into her lower lip. By instinct she parted her lips and allowed Sandor's tongue to enter her mouth. Sansa could scarcely breathe. Currents of energy were careening through her veins so fast she was practically shaking. She could feel everything Sandor was doing and everywhere Sandor was touching her almost to the point of being overwhelmed. His tongue was circling hers, soft and rough at the same time. She parted her lips a little more and pushed forward with her own tongue, feeling his give way as she entered his mouth. His body gave something of a spasm and he pulled her against him and sucked ever so gently on her tongue, tilting his head back until their mouths parted. To Sansa's surprise, he was out of breath. He looked at her, his eyes warm with arousal, and then rolled onto his back with a sharp exhale.

Sansa wasn’t sure what to do so she rolled onto her back, too, and tried to think of something to say.

“You’ll be the death of me, little bird,” murmured Sandor.

“Joffrey would kill us both.”

"He wouldn’t have to kill me once your father ran me through.”

“I would ask Father not to.”

Sandor chuckled but then grew serious. “They won’t be on that hunt forever.”

The worry that Sansa had felt before returned. “I know.”

He reached between them and brought her hand to his chest where he covered it with his other hand, his fingertips playing lightly over her skin.

“Will you still show me how to use the dagger?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

Sandor paused. “Here or in your chambers. It’s risky to have you come here and even the godswood isn't safe.”

Sansa smiled in spite of herself. “The godswood. I've been there all this time.”

Sandor laughed and squeezed her hand.

Though she didn't want to, she knew she should be seen around the castle. Sitting up, she said, "I should -"

Sandor cleared this throat. "What will you do?"

"I suppose I'll find Jeyne - you know my friend, Jeyne Poole?"

He nodded.

"I said yesterday I'd join her to watch the men-at-arms train today." She added conspiratorially, "She fancies a young man named Willard."

Sandor looked unimpressed. "Is that so?"

"Yes." It occurred to Sansa that Sandor might be acquainted with him. "Do you know him? 

"He prances and preens like the rest of them -" Sansa slumped in disappointment. "- but he's not cruel."

She perked back up, relieved for her friend. "What will you do - now that you'll be rid of me for a few hours?" she asked, smiling down at him.

"I think I'll train in the yard for awhile."

Sansa grinned. "Do you normally train with the men-at-arms?"

"Only if I have to. I normally train with the knights. Jaime's not here so . . ." He shrugged.

"I'm sure you'll be wonderful."

With a roguish look he said, "Give me your favor."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat but, looking helplessly at her gown with its lack of ribbons, she frowned. "I -"

"Give it to me here," he said, hooking a finger inside the neck of his tunic and pulling it aside to expose the skin where his neck met his shoulder. He pulled her on top of him and her breath caught in a thrill of surprise. "Kiss me."

Her blood was racing again as Sansa brought her mouth to his bare skin. She kissed a line from the side of his neck down along his shoulder as she pulled his tunic aside to reach more of him. Sandor's arms were firmly around her, his big hands rubbing slowly up and down her back. "Suck on the skin, little bird."

Unsure, Sansa did as he asked. He made a satisfied noise and brought a hand up to squeeze the back of her neck. "Harder. . . . Yes, keeping doing it."

Sansa's mind skipped back to the night in her room. He'd come to her wet with rain and the fresh, clean scent of him had weakened something inside her. She'd longed to lick the water from his neck and taste the masculine smell that drew her so powerfully. Now, her face nuzzled into his strong neck, she sucked and pulled on his flesh, breathing deeply of his scent and wishing they could somehow melt together. A contented sigh escaped her and she blushed and withdrew a little. To her horror, a large burgundy bruise, wet with her saliva, shown low on Sandor's neck. She moved off of him, staring at it.

"Is there a mark?"

"Yes, I'm -"

"Good." He patted at it with his fingertips as he sat up and adjusted the neck of his tunic.

Sansa was confused at first but then she slowly realized that he'd _wanted_ her to leave a mark on him. A rush went through her.

He moved around her to get off the bed, nipping at her earlobe quickly as he did so, and crossed the room to tip a flagon into his mouth, Sansa watching hungrily as the apple of his throat moved up and down. She felt her face grow warm at the thought of sucking on it. To hide her distraction, she remained seated on the edge of his bed as he strapped on his light armor and his swordbelt. She couldn't stop looking at his neck to see if her favor was visible. It wasn't, but knowing it was there, a secret shared between them, made her feel giddy. She rose and crossed the room.

"Are you thirsty?"

She nodded and he handed her a flagon. The wine in her empty stomach made her dizzy and she giggled. Sandor glanced at her and turned away with a grin.

Once he was ready, he said, "Lady Sansa," in his Hound's voice and gestured toward the door.

Sansa laughed outright and stepped into the hall. She felt so light and happy she was sure she could fly - just like a little bird.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I'd like to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has spent their time reading this so far. I didn't think Sevenmas had much of an audience so I was really (really!) surprised by the response to its sequel. If you're one of the people who has taken a moment to leave a comment, I thank you again. Your feedback is the only reward I (or any fic writer) will ever receive for our efforts and your comments are worth more to me than all the gold in Casterly Rock - _thank you!_ I will continue to try to make this worthy of your time. 
> 
> Now, let's continue on before that hickey fades, shall we? :-)

Sandor conducted Sansa through the castle toward the yard and stables. The one time she'd attempted a light remark, he'd answered her curtly with a look just short of contempt. Sansa kept her tone and expression neutral after that, though her heart still leapt and twirled within her chest.

 

"We're stopping by the kitchens," Sandor rumbled quietly as they reached the main part of the castle. "You need something to eat."

 

Sansa giggled but didn't protest. This time, she went with Sandor when he entered the kitchens proper, the staff snapping to attention at their arrival. One of the maids came forward, offering Sandor a familiar smile. "Need more wine already, Hound?"

 

She might as well not have spoken for the heed she was paid. "Pack a meal for Lady Sansa and her friend," Sandor said to the maids in general. "And be quick about it."

 

"What would m'lady like?" asked a young girl. "There's some cold ham . . ."

  
"That would be lovely, thank you."

  
Within moments, a basket was filled with slices of sugar-cured ham, two peaches, a mixed bean salad, honeycakes, and a flagon of sweet red wine. "She'll have some of that bread, too," Sandor added after looking over the items in the basket.

  
When they were back on their way, Sandor told her, "Make sure you eat some bread before you have any more wine."

  
"Won't you have some?"

 

"No, a full belly only slows you down in a fight."

 

They turned a corner and saw Jeyne Poole up ahead. "Jeyne!" Sansa called.

 

Jeyne turned and, seeing Sansa, ran towards her friend as Sandor took a step back. "Sansa! I'm so glad you came!"

 

"Lady Sansa," Sandor murmured, handing her the basket before taking his leave. Sansa gave a nod of dismissal, wishing he could stay but content in the knowledge that she would see him train.

  
"We - I’ve brought us a bite to eat as we watch the training."

  
"Wonderful! Willard said we'd see best from over there," Jeyne answered, taking Sansa's arm and leading her to a spot where they could look down into the yard from above. A table and chairs were found for them and they giggled together as the men got organized, and Sansa felt, just for a moment, like they were back at Winterfell.

 

"Today's training should be really exciting, Sansa. Willard says it's to be a mounted melee!" Jeyne informed her, popping a piece of ham into her mouth.

 

Just then, Sandor rode into the yard on Stranger, the serrated edges of the yellow side of the saddle blanket Sansa had made him for Sevenmas flapping with Stranger's steps. A ripple went through the men-at-arms. Some were clearly displeased that the Hound would be training with them, others wanted to test themselves against him. Sansa noticed the mixed reaction and her heart ached for him. Even this lesser company did not welcome him openly.

 

Jeyne stiffened. "What is the Hound doing here?"

 

Sansa frowned. "Where else would he be?"

  
Jeyne didn't reply and she and Sansa stared down into the yard, each with her own apprehensions.

  
"That horse shouldn't be allowed in a training round," one of the men complained, waving a hand at Stranger, who took a few eager steps and snapped at his bit. "We should all be mounted the same."

 

"Rolf's right," someone said as a few of the men muttered their agreement.

 

High in his saddle, Sandor gave the man a look of disdain and spat into the dirt near his feet.

 

"I'm not afraid of you, Clegane."

 

"Just my horse?" A few men sniggered and Rolf looked around resentfully.

 

"He's three hands higher -"

 

"Do our enemies let us choose their horses? Their weapons? No? Then mount up or sit out."

  
There was a tense pause but the man stalked to the side and let his squire fit him with his gorget.

 

Sansa and Jeyne looked at each other. A more serious mood settled over the yard where, moments before, there'd been japing and laughter.

  
"Shall I cut us a peach?" Sansa offered.

  
Jeyne nodded, "Please. They look very sweet."

  
"Willard looks very sweet as well," Sansa answered with a smile. "Is he?"

  
Jeyne warmed quickly to her favorite subject and soon she and Sansa regained their spirits and turned their attention back to the yard. One of the men-at-arms was explaining how the melee would work. "- four groups of four. Stanwick, Greene, Fletcher, and myself will call disqualifications -"

 

Sansa slid her eyes toward Sandor. He sat his horse with a confidence and a stillness the others didn't possess. Once the recitation of the rules was complete, he said a few words to Harry and waited as the first group was called. Neither he nor Willard was called so Jeyne related to Sansa a story Willard had told her about some gold cloaks fighting the previous night. Remembering Sandor's words, Sansa chewed on the bread as she listened and watched as the first two competitors were eliminated, leaving the man Rolf and another man-at-arms to circle and swing and batter each other. With a flurry of movement, Rolf pressed his opponent back and back and the man panicked and was outed on a disqualification. Sansa looked at Sandor again and found him looking at her. As she smiled, he looked away as though he hadn't met her gaze.

  
Willard was in the second group and Jeyne leaned forward, gasping every time he absorbed a blow and cheering whenever he gave one. When he prevailed, Jeyne's eyes were wet and her smile was loose, her face diffused with happiness. Willard flipped up his visor and flashed a smile, sketching her half a bow from his saddle. Sansa observed her friend from the corner of her eye and felt a slight pang. She could not be seen to favor anyone besides Joffrey. A sad weight settled in her stomach.  _They won't be on that hunt forever_ , Sandor had said.  _No, they won't be_ , she thought, and resolved to try to enjoy what time she had.

 

Sandor was called for the third group and Sansa held her breath as he rode forward on his great black beast of a horse. To her dismay, the other three men all rounded on him rather than breaking into pairs as had happened with the previous two groups. With a clang and a clash, Sandor beat back their blows, he and Stranger weaving as one around the other men. His sword carved through the air, catching the sun and metal both, his shield absorbing hits with a dull  _thump_. Growling, Sandor separated one man from the other two and with a combination of aggression and speed eliminated him from the competition. The other two men engaged again and tried to push Sandor and Stranger toward a corner of the yard. Stranger stepped to the side again and again and again, wheeling away until one man was in the corner and the other was toward the middle of the yard. Suddenly, Stranger leapt between them as Sandor delivered a savage back-hand blow to the outside man, knocking him from his saddle. The man's foot caught in his stirrup and he tried to regain his seat but was called out. The remaining man, now alone to face the Hound, seemed to shrink further into his corner. Sandor, solid and steady in the center of the yard, waited, Stranger stamping a hoof in the dry earth, sending up little clouds of dirt. The Hound leaned in his saddle as though he were about to charge and the other man shot forward, reckless and unprepared. Sandor easily made to deliver a killing blow, staying his hand to prevent contact, and the third round was over, some meager applause breaking out around the yard.

 

Sansa sank back into her chair as she, too, clapped. Her eyes never left Sandor as he moved toward Harry, pulling off his snarling dog's-head helm and shaking back his long, sweat-dampened hair. Harry handed him a wineskin and Sandor tipped back his head and drank it down with steady gulps.

 

"He still frightens me but he acquitted himself well," Jeyne noted.

 

"He -" Sansa longed to share her secret with her friend. Praise for Sandor, his strength, his honesty, his unexpected gentleness, the way his kisses lit a flame within her, the way his touch sent shivers down her skin, it was all on the tip of her tongue. She wanted Jeyne to know and appreciate Sandor as she did, to see him as more than his fearsome reputation. She knew she could trust Jeyne but she could not risk Sandor's safety. All it would take was one word in the wrong ear to set Ilyn Payne to sharpening his blade. Sansa closed her mouth on the opportunity to share something as simple and as important as her happiness with her closest friend.

  
"You are well protected," Jeyne added with a small smile.

  
"I am," Sansa agreed.

 

She and Jeyne nibbled on the honeycakes and sipped at the wine through the fourth round. The victors from the four rounds were to face each other in a fifth and final round, after a small break to let the last victor catch his breath. A light wind blew across the yard, the afternoon sunlight streaming at an angle through the castle's crenelations. Sansa began to feel lulled but straightened up in her chair when the last round began. At the call, Rolf and Willard both turned toward Sandor, the fourth man apparently not interested in engaging him. Willard pulled back when he saw Rolf make for the Hound, though, so the pairs separated, swords flashing, horses whinnying, dust drifting on the warm breeze. Rolf hacked, jabbed, and called challenges, which Sandor met with an implacable silence. Within moments, Sandor landed a hard shot to Rolf's ribs and then glanced a ringing blow off his helm on their next pass. Rolf said something Sansa couldn't hear but Sandor's sword answered with a series of slashes, whip-fast, drawing closer and closer until, with an almost lazy flick of the wrist, the tip of his sword caught the underside of the Rolf's cross-guard and sent his blade flying into the air. Even before it landed in the dirt, Sandor was heading toward where Willard and the fourth man were locked together, each trying to press the other off balance. Rolf angrily wheeled away, looking like he might attack Sandor even while unarmed, but Greene and Fletcher corralled him.

  
Willard and his opponent pushed off of each other, both trying to land a hit before the other could, Willard's saddle instead absorbing a blow. Their blades cut the air and then Willard deftly rested the point of his sword under the other man's chin. As Willard turned to find Sandor, a loud creak was heard by everyone in the yard. Willard's billet strap broke and his saddle started to slide. He yelled and yanked his feet from his stirrups and managed to vault off his horse. Sandor pulled up and turned Stranger aside as Willard's squire scrambled to grab the reins of his frightened horse. Jeyne stood, her mouth frozen in a rictus of fear, her knuckles white as she clutched the stone wall. "Are you hurt?" called Stanwick, coming forward.

 

"No, no, I'm fine," Willard said in a rushed breath as he got to his feet. "Just surprised, that's all." He glanced toward the wall where Jeyne and Sansa stood.

 

"Oh, thank the gods," Jeyne murmured, sagging in relief.

 

"Clegane, you win, by default," announced Stanwick.

  
"No," Willard answered. "I will challenge him on foot. If you're willing to accept, Hound."

 

Sandor pushed back his visor and regarded the younger man for a moment. "I accept." He dismounted and threw the reins to Harry.

 

Willard immediately brought his sword up but Sandor stayed him with a raised hand. "Make ready."

  
"I thank you," Willard said as Sandor pulled off his dog's-head helm. Willard's squire and another boy came forward to collect their helms and adjust their armor. They each drank and wiped their brows before positioning themselves in the center of the yard, a taut attention running among the onlookers. Sandor towered over the red-headed Willard, who was lean and lithe, a sharp contrast to Sandor's dark, solid bulk. Willard advanced and the duel began with a ring and a  _schick_ and a swipe.

  
Sandor's moves were tight and effective, forcing Willard to swing wide in an attempt to land a shot, at times leaving part of his arm or torso open. The duel ebbed and flowed across the yard, the clanging of their swords ringing off the stone walls of the castle. Willard was extremely quick with his blade and nimble on his feet. He danced around Sandor but the bigger man seemed to anticipate his every move. Sansa wondered why Sandor, Willard's equal in speed and his superior in size, strength, and skill, didn't simply end it. He allowed Willard to land but few shots yet he did not pummel him in return. Instead, he seemed content to let Willard exhaust himself as Sandor parried, blocked, and dodged nearly all of his strokes. After several long minutes, Willard was breathing like a blown horse.

  
"Yield?" Sandor offered.

  
"Never!"

  
Sansa could practically feel Sandor roll his eyes as he engaged the younger man again. He stopped withholding his force and put more of his weight and muscle into his attack, his powerful legs lunging forward and springing back, his hair drifting about his face and shoulders as though under water. Sansa was awed by the calm fluidity of his movements. Every step, every stroke was smooth and purposeful. The curve of his parry flowed easily into the line of his riposte, effortless mastery evident in every shift and turn. Sansa's mind moved under his armor and over the muscles contracting together before vigorously releasing, saw them lengthen to thrust and seize on impact. To watch him was to witness a simultaneous demonstration of strength and control.  Her eyes and ears took it in but it was somewhere deeper inside her that recognition bloomed: she wanted to fit into his rhythm, to be a melody to his harmony in the beautiful song of his motion.

  
A crack of the swords recalled her as Sandor’s blade met Willard's again and again, though Willard was no longer lifting his sword so high or moving so quickly.

 

"Yield."

  
"No," Willard huffed.

 

Sandor's movements became looser. Not sloppy, but broader and with less economy of motion. Willard noticed and began to take somewhat desperate stabs, only to have them parried with a flash of steel. Sandor moved closer and jabbed at Willard's sword arm, causing him to bring his shield across his body. Sandor drove his own shield into Willard's, sending him spinning, and took a quick step to the side. Willard whipped back around only to find that his own momentum would have driven him onto the point of the sword aimed at his ribs. He tried to lash out with his shield and hurl himself back in the opposite direction, his eyes widening as he saw his mistake, but it was too late and Greene called him out.

 

Huffing and puffing, Willard acknowledged Sandor's victory with a nod, Sandor saying something in return that did not carry to where Sansa and Jeyne were on their feet, applauding madly. Cheers and congratulations went up from the men-at-arms, mostly for Willard but some for Sandor, too. Willard, grinning broadly, twirled his sword before sheathing it with a flourish. He bowed deeply to Jeyne, who giggled and smiled at him adoringly. He'd be able to say he withstood the Hound for some time, which few men, and none outside of the Kingsguard except for Gregor Clegane, could boast.

 

Sandor watched all this impassively. As Harry hustled to his side, his eyes drifted up to where the two ladies had been seated. He rested his hand at the joining of his neck and shoulder, locked his eyes on Sansa, and inclined his head slightly, not breaking his gaze. Saliva flooded Sansa's mouth as she thought of the mark she'd left on his skin hours before. They'd been seen sufficiently by plenty of others. Sansa wished to be back in Sandor's room, even in his bed,  _now_. A sudden hunger for his touch nearly overwhelmed her and she felt prickly from the lack of it. Too soon, he turned away and said a few words to Harry, who disappeared into the castle. Sandor gathered up Stranger's reins and walked off in the direction of the stables without looking back.

 

The yard began to empty and Sansa and Jeyne prepared to leave, thanking a maid who had appeared to clear the remains of their meal.

 

"Lady Sansa!"

 

She turned to find Harry hurrying toward her. She smiled at him and he flushed. "Lady Sansa, the Hound bids me tell you that he will escort you to the dining hall this evening, as you requested earlier. He begs leave to bathe and eat first."

 

"Gladly granted. Please offer him my congratulations on his victory, and you did very well, too."

 

“Thank you, m’lady.” Harry smiled, ducked his head, and hurried off.

  
Sansa and Jeyne returned to the cool interior of the castle, Jeyne gushing over Willard's achievement, Sansa ruminating over the feel of Sandor's skin between her lips.

  
Back in her room, Sansa looked at herself carefully in her mirror. Her face didn't look any different but she was all too aware of an increasing turmoil behind her serene countenance. Her cheeks pinkened slightly when she thought of Sandor and how he'd carried her to his bed. She'd been afraid and nervous and stiff. He was a man, unhindered by a maiden's modesty and inexperience and free to take his pleasure where he found it. She'd told Sandor herself that she wanted to be queen, to help the smallfolk and curtail whatever cruelty Joffrey would inflict on his people. She felt guilty that, now, she craved something else, something she shouldn't want and couldn't have.

 

Sansa refreshed herself for dinner, taking special care with her appearance. She changed into a gown of white that highlighted her collarbones and clasped a delicate silver chain around her neck. Her hair she brushed into loose curls and, with a feeling of womanly bravado, she dabbed scent onto her wrists, behind her ears, and, quickly, between her breasts, as she’d heard some ladies did as an enticement. Lucy was still bustling around her room when Sandor knocked and announced his arrival. He was admitted and Sansa felt triumphant when the faintest trace of heat shown in his eyes.

 

"You were magnificent today," she effused, taking his arm to descend the stairs. "And so powerful!" she added, looking up at him shyly through her eyelashes to gauge his reaction to her bold words.

 

He snorted. "Gnats. All of them."

 

"Even Willard?"

 

"He has speed, I'll give him that."

 

"If that's all he has, why didn't you -" Sansa hesitated to insinuate he'd done something wrong. Being an authority without expertise was Joffrey's domain and she had no wish to enter into it.

 

"Your friend was watching," was all he said in return.

 

Sansa wasn't sure how to respond to that, since a part of her suspected that Sandor was proud of his ferocious reputation, so she remained quiet.

 

Dinner was an agony of restraint and then there was some reedy singing by a minstrel who was both oblivious to the inattention of his audience and in love with his own meager voice. At long last, it was acceptable to leave. She, Septa Mordane, Arya, and Sandor made their way back to the Tower of the Hand in silence. Septa Mordane was deposited on the lowest floor before they saw Arya to her room on the floor beneath Sansa's. She was quiet and tired and had a bruise on her wrist that made Sansa suspect her dancing lessons were not going well. Sansa and Sandor continued up the stairs, her hand resting again in the crook of his elbow but her mind whirling away. When they reached her door, he stood to the side as he always did though he rested his eyes upon her.

 

"Would you come in?" she said as quietly as she could.

 

With a look up and down the empty hall, Sandor followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

 

He was here! Nervous energy banged around inside her chest, making it harder to breathe. How to delicately tell him she liked his kisses and wanted more of them?

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Hmm?” He stepped close to her, crowding her against the wall. He bent down and kissed her soft and slow, his large hands resting lightly on her waist.

 

She smiled against his lips, excitement crackling within her. His woodsy scent invigorated her. “Tonight -” she began without an idea of how to frame her suggestion.

 

“Tonight, little bird?” He kissed along the edge of her jaw, his hair soft against her face, his breath warm on her ear. “Tonight I’m going drinking.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of defending oneself against an assailant

A torrent of disappointment walloped her. "Drinking?" She hated that the word even left her mouth. He was a borrowed shield and she was not a nagging fishwife. His time, outside of what she asked him to spend protecting her, was his own.

 

"Yes, drinking."

 

She pulled away from him, too humiliated to have him see the disappointment on her face. 

 

He stood straight and looked at her, a mix of expressions crossing his face, frustration among them. When Sansa didn't respond, he went on. "It will look strange if I don't."

 

Sansa nodded, numb.

 

"Cersei will expect a report when she returns. I need something to tell her."

 

Sansa nodded again, wishing he'd leave, wishing she'd not made such an obvious effort on her appearance.

 

He chucked her under the chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "I heard some things in the yard today . . . probably nothing, but it's worth knowing if there's trouble brewing."

 

"Jeyne told me that Willard said some gold cloaks were fighting the other night."

 

Sandor drew his eyebrows together. "What else?"

 

She related what details she remembered, not seeing any significance in them.

 

"Tomorrow I'll show you how to use the dagger."

 

Sansa watched his face to see if he meant he'd show her how to use the dagger or if he meant he'd kiss her and thrill her and scare her like he'd done that morning. He looked serious.

 

He continued, "I'll send someone to stand guard tonight. Dismiss him in the morning and then come to my room after you've broken your fast."

 

"I will."

 

"Bar the door when I leave."

 

"I will."

 

For a moment they stood looking at each other. He stepped toward her again and reached out an arm to pull her closer. She stood against him stiffly. He held her upper arms and spoke low, as though they were surrounded by others, his raspy voice just above her ear. "I'm still wearing your favor, little bird."

 

An unexpected blush swept over her cheeks and she relaxed a little but still felt dizzied that he was leaving her. "I'm . . . I'm glad for it," she answered honestly.

 

"I won't drink much tonight."

 

"If it please you."

 

He snorted. "Such a proper little lady. And sweet-smelling, too," he added, breathing in the scent of her hair.

 

Sansa leaned into him, lightly grasping the front of his tunic, taking pleasure in his own scent.

 

Sandor stepped back and bent down to kiss her, his fingertips under her chin. "Tomorrow, little bird. Remember to bring the dagger."

 

***

  
Sansa dined in her room the next morning and then took a circuitous route through the castle on her way to Sandor's room. Her heart was pattering along at a quicker rate than usual and her eyes darted everywhere, hoping to detect possible observers. She was walking down a hallway, sure she was emitting a pulsating light so conspicuous did she feel, when she Arya stepped into the hallway ahead of her and quickly pulled her one arm behind her back.

 

"Good morning," Sansa said to her sister, relieved on the one hand but more alarmed on the other.

 

"Good morning," Arya responded, narrowing her eyes and angling her body to keep her back toward the wall.

 

"Where are you going?" Sansa's ears were listening for things besides an answer. She tried to appear composed and interested.

 

"To my dancing lesson . . ."

 

"Oh. That's nice."

 

"Where are  _you_  going?"

 

"Out for a walk," Sansa answered in a voice an octave higher than her normal one.

 

Arya made to edge by her though the hallway was wide enough for twenty. "Enjoy your walk."

 

"Enjoy your lesson." Sansa gave her sister a weak smile. She heard Arya take off at a run as she herself hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction, relieved to be alone once more. The dog was in the hallway again and she gave him a quick pat on the head before knocking softly on Sandor's door and entering his room.

 

He turned away from the portrait of the girl on his mantel when she came in. Sansa wanted to ask how his night had been but knew such a question could be construed as a recrimination so she said nothing and merely observed that he looked alert and maybe a little tightly wound. His eyes took in her heightened color and he asked, "Any trouble getting here?"

 

"No."

 

"Good." He held her eye. "Did you bring the dagger?

 

Sansa pulled it out of her pocket, smoothly this time, and held it out to him.

 

He nodded his approval. A moment later he was striding toward her, cupping her face in his hands, and covering her mouth with his, his warm tongue seeking hers out. Sansa put her hands over his, dazed. Just as she was sinking into the feel of him, he broke away and took a deep breath, lightly wiping his mouth with his fingertips. "Next time we'll meet somewhere else. It's too dangerous to keep coming here."

 

Sansa was too short of breath to reply.

 

Sandor seemed to shake off some distraction. "I said I'd show you how to use the dagger but you're not training for a melee. It's more likely you'll have to fight off a raper so we'll focus on that."

 

Sansa reluctantly agreed. She didn't like the idea but knew he was right.

 

"Sit down," he said, nodding in the direction of the table. He pushed back the few flagons and a tray of food that were on it before continuing. "First, we'll work on your grip, which can vary depending on the kind of blade you're using. What kind of blade does your dagger have?"

 

Sansa was caught off-guard. "I - I don't know. A sharp one, I suppose." She offered him a small smile.

 

He flicked a look at her from the corner of his eye in return. "That's important, now you mention it. Your weapons should always be clean, sharpened, and ready to use. Your dagger  _is_ sharp and, since you won't be using it, it'll stay that way. I'll show you later how to hone the edge." He reached for her hand and took the dagger from it. Leaning away, he unsheathed it and turned the dagger back and forth, showing her the blade. "Your dagger is double-edged and the blade is short. What is it made for?"

 

"I -"

 

"Think about it."

 

Sansa considered what he'd told her and looked at the shining steel. "Stabbing."

 

"Yes." He sounded pleased and Sansa beamed. "Or slashing. A double-edge lets you cut on either side," he added as he extended his arm away from her and made a slashing motion from his wrist.

 

Sansa nodded. "I see."

 

Sandor looked at her with a smile. "Here." He took her wrist in one hand and put the dagger's handle in her palm with his other. "Keep your thumb down," he said as his fingers slid over hers, squeezing them around the handle, which curved on the outsides of her pinky and forefinger and kept the knife securely in her grip. "How does it feel?"

 

"It feels made for me."

 

Sandor met her eye but only said, "Sheath it - slowly. Plenty of men slice their hands open because they're careless."

 

She slowly slid the blade into the leather sheath. Sandor nodded in approval. "How you're holding it now is how I want you to hold it. You'll be able to get it out of your pocket or bring it up from your side and use it without changing your grip. The more you change your grip, the more you're like to drop it or fumble it, and any delay can cost you. I'll show you something else." 

 

He rose and crossed the room to retrieve some other knives from a chest. "See this one? The serrated blade is made for deep cutting, and it's only single-sided. This is what you use when you have time to saw into something, and you hold it like this," he said, demonstrating as he fitted his fingers against the curves of the handle and turned his wrist so it was at a slight angle. " _This_  one has a canted blade. See? All the serrations are angled in one direction. This is good for quick sawing because it rips when you pull the blade toward you but doesn't drag when you push it back." He glanced up at her, his face transformed by his interest in the subject. "The serrations are close to the handle. When a knife is made like that, you don't need the precision you would if they were near the tip." Sandor looked at her again. "It lets you use greater force and you hold it the same way as the other one." He showed her and Sansa nodded vaguely. 

 

"Now, your dagger," he picked it up, "is good for stabbing and slashing. The way the handle's curved, it's mainly meant for a forward thrust but, if you had to, you could change your grip," he demonstrated by turning his hand so his thumb was on top, "and use it in a downward thrust. Plant it in the bastard's back, if you have to."

 

Sansa made a face. This was gruesome business. A bubble of unease started to form in her stomach. She didn't want to hurt anyone and she wasn't sure she'd have the stomach to even if it was warranted. Besides, the grips Sandor was showing her all looked pretty much the same.

 

"Sandor, I'm - I don't want to saw into someone."

 

"Don't think about it."

 

"I doubt I could think of anything else if I did."

 

Sandor put the dagger down. 'If someone's trying to kill you, you're not going to think, you're going to react. If you're trained well enough, you'll react in the right way. It's the ones who panic that are easy targets."

 

"You said I'd be more likely to be raped than attacked." She cringed away from the words.

 

"And would a raper want you telling the king about it?"

 

Sansa didn't like what that implied. "But, right now, everyone is on the hunt. Wouldn't that make it less - "

 

"No. Who's left, little bird? Everyone not important enough to hunt with the king. The cats are gone so the mice are out."

 

"You make it sound like I could be attacked at any moment."

 

"Remember that bloody William Dench?"

 

She did.

 

"You're going to be queen one day and you're the Hand's daughter now. That's protection and temptation both."

 

Sansa knew he was right but was still troubled. Sandor looked at her, narrowing his eyes in examination. "You're afraid."

 

"Not when you're with me." Where had  _that_  come from? Joffrey had only left for the hunt two days ago and already her mouth was ungovernable. It was bad enough that she was carrying on with . . . whatever this was but such speech could cost them both. She was growing too comfortable.

 

Her words put a twinkle in Sandor's eye but he said, "I can't always be with you." When she didn't respond, he added, "Knowing how to defend yourself will make you less afraid. Here." With one fluid movement he was on his feet, pulling her to hers. He quickly put away his own daggers and then turned back to her.

 

"Remember this: your dagger isn't your best weapon - it's surprise. If some buggering fool gets it into his head to . . . you only get one chance to surprise him with your steel. Once he knows you have it, the game changes. I can show you some defensive moves but your aim should be to get away, not to engage."

 

"That's a relief!"

 

He chuckled. "Alright, little bird," he stood in front of her. "Put the dagger back in your pocket. It won't do you any good if you can't get it out quickly."

 

Over and over he made her practice, pulling it from her pocket, from the folds of her dress, with her left hand, while standing, while seated. He was patient and specific and, soon, Sansa no longer felt awkward. There was value in what he was teaching her and she began to appreciate the little nuances. Once she was proficient at making the dagger available, he began to show her what to do with it. He never put himself in the position of the attacker but rather demonstrated what he wanted her to do. When she did it incorrectly, he'd explain the move again and help her visualize the steps. When she did it correctly, his eyes would crinkle at the corners and he would simply say, "Yes." Sansa felt immensely pleased and, despite the unpleasant reason behind the lesson, she was enjoying herself. She felt powerful and capable. Soon she tried to add a little flourish to her moves.

 

"Don't get fancy. Just put the blade where it needs to go."

 

"I know. I just . . ."

 

"Like feeling powerful?"

 

Sansa thought about that. Courtesy had always been her armor but she had to acknowledge that carrying steel had its advantages. "I like not feeling defenseless, though I never felt unsafe until coming to King's Landing."

 

Sandor hmm'ed at that. After a beat he said, "A quick stab may be enough to discourage an attacker but it may also make him angry. Some men like it when a woman fights back, some don't. I told you earlier that you should try to get away. If you can't, then you should know how to incapacitate him." He watched Sansa's face, apparently looking for signs that she'd back away from this knowledge.

 

Sansa pressed her lips together, silently acknowledging that he should continue.

 

Using the outside edge of his hand, he showed her where arteries lay in the neck and, as heat bloomed under her cheeks, near the crease of his leg at his upper thigh. Sansa knew it was unseemly to stare at a man's groin but, since Sandor didn't look at all abashed, she tried to hide her embarrassment and focus on where to cut for maximum blood loss.

 

"Arteries are best but there's the heart," he took her hand and laid it on his chest where she could feel a steady thumping beneath the muscle, "if you can get to it. Your dagger isn't the best weapon for that but, if you have to try it, turn the blade so it's horizontal to the ground and try to slide it between the ribs."

 

Sansa nodded and, a moment later than she should have, removed her hand from his chest. Sandor continued but Sansa was distracted.

 

"If you're on the ground, you can slash open the backs of his ankles. Make sure you cut the tendon. He won't be able to walk and then you can get away. Except for when?"

 

Sansa was feeling a little woozy. All this talk of slashing, surely . . . She'd watched Ser Hugh of the Vale die mere feet from her, killed by Sandor's brother at the tourney in her father's honor last year, but it was different when she considered herself as the victim.

 

"Except for when?" Sandor prompted.

 

"I - I don't know."

 

"Except for when he's wearing boots. Your dagger is meant to go through skin, remember? Not tanned leather. Don't forget the limitations of your weapon." He was about to go on but he took a good look at her. "Let's stop for awhile."

 

Sansa gladly assented.

 

"Some food?" He gestured at the table like its presence annoyed him.

 

"Oh, is this for - ?" Sansa was going say "us" but felt shy. Clearly the food was for them. The tray contained bread, butter, cheese, apples, and grapes. "Yes, please. It looks good."

 

They sat at the table and Sandor removed a knife from his belt and cored and cut the apple, offering her chunks from the point.  As he did so, she daintily spread butter on the bread and offered him pieces in turn. 

 

"May I?" she asked, indicating one of the flagons.

 

He reached for a different one. "This one's for you."

 

Sansa took a sip, preparing for the dry, sour red wine to reach the back of her throat, but found it was a smooth white wine of good quality. He watched her swallow and seemed to enjoy the look of surprise on her face when she realized it wasn't his usual Dornish red. She smiled at him and he smiled back. They ate in a companionable silence for awhile, Sansa enjoying the simple meal and wondering that Sandor didn't cut his mouth, eating nearly every bite off of his knife's point as he did.

 

"Where did you learn all this?" she asked after awhile, tipping a hand toward her dagger resting on the table. Sansa knew he was a highly skilled and fearsome warrior but she'd been surprised by his depth of observation both in weaponry and human behavior.

 

"Everywhere."

 

"Everywhere?"

 

"I've had formal training, watched tourneys and melees, gotten into fights, seen others fight, talked to armorers . . ." He shrugged.

 

Sansa reached out and put her hand on his. He looked it before raising his gaze and looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Do you ever get tired of it? Of fighting all the time?"

 

"I don't fight all the time."

 

"I meant do you ever get tired of being ready to fight all the time?"

 

He turned his hand over, his fingers curling around hers. "Not too many men want to fight me."

 

"You like to train with Ser Jaime . . ."

 

"Yes."

 

Sansa, after having been in Jaime Lannister's company periodically throughout the last year, thought him as arrogant as he was handsome. She knew her father did not like him at all. He seemed like just the sort of man Sandor would despise. "Why? He's certainly very skilled but  . . . you and he . . .," she faltered.

 

"How can I stand him?" Sandor looked amused. 

 

"No, I meant -" That had been what Sansa meant but it was too discourteous to say. Ser Jaime had been distantly polite to her in all their encounters but there was ever a mocking glint in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. "He does not seem to care much about anything."

 

Sandor chuckled. "There's one thing he cares about."

 

Sansa did not understand.

 

"I like to train with him because he's as good as he thinks he is and he's nearly as good as I am."

 

Sansa smiled at his jape and Sandor smiled back before growing more serious. "He's not easy to beat, not like the rest of them." Sandor tilted his head back and dropped a few grapes into his mouth.

 

"Do you think Joffrey will become as skilled as his uncle?"

 

Sandor snorted and gave her a look. "Your bloody sister disarmed him. What do you think?"

 

Sansa sighed. Did her future husband have anything to recommend him besides his looks and his royal birth? She suddenly wondered if people asked themselves the same of her. She nibbled on a slice of bread as Sandor washed down his grapes with some wine. Her eye fell on the portrait on the mantel and she wondered again who the girl in it was. Sandor had been looking at it when Sansa had come in so, whoever she was, he'd not forgotten her.

 

"You've grown quiet, little bird."

 

Sansa instantly rejected asking Sandor if he thought she was anything but a pretty ornament and instead heard herself say, "Who is the girl in that portrait?"

 

A look crossed Sandor's face that suggested he regretted his words but he answered, "My sister."

 

Sansa was astounded. "Your sister?! I didn't know you had a sister. Is she married? Where does she live?" The idea of there being a Lady Clegane fascinated her, seeing as how Sandor and his brother, the horrid Gregor, were two of the biggest men she'd ever laid eyes on. She herself was tall but she imagined any sister of theirs must truly be striking. The face on the mantel was a simple rendering but Sansa immediately added long black hair, high cheekbones, gray eyes, and a thin mouth.

 

"She died." Sandor's face closed off and he reached for a drink.

 

Sansa felt terrible. "I'm so sorry." She wanted to hold his hand again but the nearer one was holding the flagon. She reached out and awkwardly patted his shoulder.

 

He set the flagon down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll tell you about her another time. I want to show you how to defend yourself without your dagger," he said, rising.

 

Sansa stood as well and soon she was absorbing Sandor's instructions on how to break a nose with the heel of her hand. An hour later, mentally and physically tired from fending off imaginary foes, she leaned against the side of the window and looked down into the courtyard. She sensed Sandor was tired, too. His "make sure no one sees you there" was given without inflection. 

 

Sansa turned away from the window and approached him. "We've been at this a long time. Let's go for a walk."

 

***

 

The breeze rolling in off Blackwater Bay was warm but refreshing. Sansa and Sandor strolled along the battlements, Sansa letting the sun caress her face and enjoying the feel of the gentle wind playing in her hair. She stopped and rested her forearms on the top of the wall, looking out at the ships. Sandor leaned with his hips against the wall and looked in the opposite direction toward the Keep. It was a glorious afternoon, one that made it hard to believe there was anything but beauty and goodness in the world. Clouds were piling up far off on the horizon but the air buffeting her face and slipping under her clothes felt wonderful. She looked over at Sandor, who, while never looking truly relaxed, at least seemed calm in a distracted sort of way. Sansa wished she could tip her face up to his and kiss him as the gusts blew their hair around them. It saddened and frustrated her that even walking arm-in-arm might draw attention. Openness was what she craved; to be as open as the view, as wide-ranging as the wind, free from the tight constraints of propriety and opinion. She sighed. The Sansa who’d left Winterfell a year ago would have been shocked by these ideas.

 

“Storm’s coming, little bird.”

 

Sansa eyed the clouds in the distance. It seemed impossible anything should mar the day but she trusted his word. “Perhaps it would be better to eat in my room then." At his vague nod, she added, "Would you join me?”

 

He slid his eyes to hers. With a catch in her chest, she realized he wanted to say no. He was seeking a way to politely decline. He’d kissed her upon her arrival in his room but had quickly gotten himself under control and had not touched her more than was necessary since then. Alarm started to jangle her but Sansa tried to compose herself for his refusal.

 

He blew out a breath and said, “Yes.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to littlebirdhound for her inspired and inspiring use of trim on smallclothes. :-)

Sansa washed up as Sandor stood in the hall outside her door. The Stark retainers were making their way to the dining hall for the evening meal and she wanted them to see that Sandor was at his post. She'd asked him to wait until the shifts had changed and Lucy had brought her meal before joining her. She’d requested a large meal be delivered early, claiming her walk had piqued her appetite, and, when Sandor announced Lucy's arrival in the flattest of voices, she immediately sat at the small table in front of the unlit fireplace and exclaimed over how delicious everything smelled.

 

"Will that be all, my lady?"

 

"Yes, Lucy, thank you." She picked up her knife to butter a thick slice of bread but then set it down and added, "Lucy, there  _is_  one more thing. Would you please ask Sandor Clegane to come inside before his shift ends? I'm thinking of going to the market tomorrow and will need an escort arranged."

 

A moment later, Sandor stepped inside the door and Lucy was thanked and dismissed for the night. Sansa smiled broadly at Sandor as she stood and gripped the back of her chair, nerves fluttering around in her stomach. As silly as it was, she felt the weight of responsibility as his hostess. "Won't you sit?"

 

There were only dishes and utensils for one but they made do, Sansa smiling shyly as they shared the meal, fresh air blowing in the two large doors that opened onto a deep balcony. She tried to keep the conversation going but Sandor was quiet and there were lulls. After such a pause she said, “Thank you for showing me how to use my dagger.”

 

“You did well.”

 

Sansa blushed. “My instructor was very good.”

 

“You’re very good and always have been, haven’t you? A proper lady.”

 

Something about his words didn’t strike her as a compliment, exactly, but she couldn’t see a reason why they wouldn’t be.

 

"Shall we sit on the balcony? It’s ever so nice out.”

 

Sandor rose and followed Sansa, who carried with her a plate containing two lemon cakes and two berry tarts. The balcony overlooked the stables and the sept. It was partially overhung by the Hand's balcony on the floor above but was otherwise open to the air. A smooth stone bench of sorts ran along the length of the interior wall and little pots of brightly-colored flowers dotted the ledge. A lantern and tinder-strike sat in the corner. Sansa found it a pleasant place to sew and, when she was seated on the bench, hidden from view on all sides and only able to see very distant fields, it was like being ensconced in a private world.

 

Sandor settled onto the stone bench and rested a flagon of wine between his feet. Sansa put the plate next to his thigh and sat angled toward him, pleasantly surprised by the warmth the stone had absorbed that day. The last rays of afternoon sunshine were slanting through the clouds, pulling long shadows from buildings and trees. The wind was stronger now, still mild, but gusting enough to allow her hair to escape its pins. She brushed back a loose tendril and looked at Sandor’s profile. His scarred side was away from her and she tried to imagine what he'd look like had he never been burned. If he was bothered by her staring, he didn't let on. He remained leaning against the wall with his head tilted up, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.

 

“Dessert?”

 

He rolled his head to the side and eyed the plate. Slowly, his gaze traveled along the bench to her lap and then up over her bodice to her face. He looked at her for a moment and then said, “It’s too sweet.”

 

Sansa was surprised but then remembered that he liked his wine on the sour side. “Try a lemon cake. It’s sweet but the lemon makes it just a little tart.” She picked one up and held it out to him with one hand while the other hovered beneath to catch any crumbs, despite their being outside. He took her wrist and leaned forward to bite into the cake as he held her eye. She watched him eagerly, hoping he’d like it. He leaned away, chewing and swallowing before speaking.

 

“They’re your favorite.”

 

“They are but I don’t mind sharing. Would you like some more?”

 

“You should have what you want. All of it.”

 

Sansa glanced at the plate. “There’s another one and I’m sure the tarts will be delicious.”

 

He scowled. “I want what you’re offering, little bird, but you may want it back after it’s gone.”

 

Sansa was confused. “Would . . . would you like something else?”

 

"I never got my song."

 

“Oh.” What was he talking about? She remembered saying she’d sing for him daily but he hadn’t asked for a song. It seemed as though he wanted one now, however. “What would you like to hear?”

 

“You choose.”

 

Sansa was still perplexed by his mood and songs came to her but slowly. She looked out past the balcony’s edge. In the darkening distance she could see great swaths of field and darker shadows that she knew to be ponds. Taking inspiration from the view, she began to sing the first line of Six Maids in a Pool.

 

“Not that one,” he snapped, cutting her off.

 

Sansa’s brow furrowed. Had she done something wrong? She moved to light the lantern against the gathering gloom and, upon standing, saw the sept. When she was reseated, she began Maiden, Mother, and Crone, expecting him to interrupt again. Instead, he leaned forward and picked up the flagon, bringing it to his lips for a long, steady sip as he looked out at the sky. After the last note faded away, she remained quiet. It was as if he were alone until he requested another song some moments later. As she quietly sang the opening of Autumn of My Day, he gave a sad smirk and took another drink. When she was done, she looked at the fields again. She sensed his restlessness but, being unable to assign it a cause, she turned to pick up the other lemon cake and took a dainty bite. Moist and sweet with just a touch of tang from the lemon, she couldn't stop a small "mmm" from passing her lips, so deeply did she enjoy the flavor.

 

Sandor turned to look at her.

 

"I can sing again, if you like."

 

"No, little bird. You've sung all you're going to. Eat your lemon cake."

 

"Would you like something else?"

 

"Would you?”

 

Sansa was feeling more confused than ever. She put down the lemon cake and brushed the crumbs from her fingertips. “Have I done something -”

 

“No.” He looked angry in the flickering light of the lantern.

 

"Is something wrong?”

 

He ground his teeth together. "A dagger isn’t going to save you if Joffrey finds out.”

 

A warm gust of wind blew over the balcony and goosebumps raised on Sansa's skin as she remembered Lady.

 

Sandor muttered, "I shouldn't have -"

 

“You shouldn't have what?” Anxiety began to whirl around inside her stomach. Surely he didn't regret the past few days . . .

 

"I shouldn't have taken what isn't mine."

 

"You haven't taken me."

 

He gave her a sardonic look but she was irritated that he'd made her sound like property, particularly because she'd come to feel a sense of freedom in his company. 

 

“Have I no say in the matter? If I decide –“

 

"And what would you decide, girl? To be disgraced? The prince's dog isn't -"

 

"I think -" Sansa calmed herself and chose her words carefully. She'd come to a number of realizations since the Seven Days began. Mainly, that her recent decisions had been poor. She was satisfied that she'd secured for Sandor a short reprieve from his service to the prince but she should have allowed her father to end her betrothal to Joffrey. She still found King Robert to be intimidating and did not want her father subject to his displeasure but, truly, she should have remained silent. As Sandor had pointed out, she could still help the smallfolk even if she wasn't queen. Yes, she'd still be Joffrey's subject but distance from him held a greater appeal than ever. The thought of Joffrey returning from the hunt in a foul mood both worried and exhausted her. She couldn't say Sandor was always easy company but she didn't fear him and, of late, she'd very much been enjoying their time together, even when he wasn't kissing her. Sansa was also aware of a shift within herself. She still wanted to fulfill her responsibilities to her family, to the king, and to the smallfolk, and she often did her duty gladly, but she'd spent all of her seventeen years meeting the expectations of everyone around her. In Sandor's company, she'd stepped outside of herself and seen just how wide the world truly was. A part of her wanted to shed her obligations . . . if only until the hunt ended. A few days of freedom, even if stolen in the shadow of Joffrey's wrath, were too appealing to refuse. She looked at Sandor and continued. "I think it will be hard when the hunt ends to conceal that I know you as well as I do. But I would know you better just the same." 

 

He considered that for a moment. “This is what you choose?”

 

“Yes." The finality of it nearly took her breath away.

 

"You're certain?" He was staring at her intently, watching for any sign of a lie.

 

"Yes."

 

His posture relaxed just a little but he didn't respond.

 

"What do you choose?”

 

The corners of his mouth twitched up. "Dessert."

 

Sansa smiled and reached for the lemon cake he'd bitten into earlier.

 

"That's not what I want." He pinched off a corner of one of the tarts, breaking the crust, the bright red juice of the berries bleeding out onto the plate. He popped the bit of pastry into his mouth and ate it while looking at Sansa, his eyes crinkled in the corners. "Don’t be shy, girl. Feed it to me like you did the lemon cake.”

 

Sansa reached for a fork. 

 

"Not that way."

 

The tart looked awfully messy but she nudged a cherry out of the crust and balanced it on her fingertip. Sandor leaned forward to take the length of her finger into his mouth, the tip of his tongue tickling the skin between her index and middle fingers before he sucked off the cherry and its juice. The sensation of it surprised her. She dipped into the tart again and pulled out a strawberry. His lips around the tips of her index finger and thumb felt so strange, so soft and warm and moist, so unusual and so different from the way he usually touched her. Until recently, he'd only ever touched her with his hands, and for every gentle touch, there seemed to be a firmer grab or pinch to go with it. She knew he could be gentle but this was something else entirely.

 

"Is it good?"

 

"Too early to tell."

 

Sansa laughed softly. She broke off a piece of the crust and dabbed it into the pool of syrupy juice before feeding it to him. She dragged the pad of her thumb over his lower lip to wipe away the red stain.

 

Sandor dipped his finger into the red puddle and raised it to her mouth, which she opened, but instead of feeding it to her, he smeared it on her lip. She ran the tip of her tongue over it, the sweetness of the juice making her say, "Mmm," again.

 

Sandor leaned forward and covered her mouth with his, his tongue sliding over her lower lip as he gently sucked on it. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, the hard ridges of his scars a contrast to his soft mouth. He leaned away and hastily moved the plate to the ground before pulling her closer. Sansa barely had time to take a breath before he tugged her against his chest and lay back on the bench. He pulled her up again and resumed kissing her.

 

The feel of his body beneath her was nearly overwhelming. Her breasts were pressed against his hard chest, only the fabric of her gown and his tunic separating them. The heat of the stone bench warmed her palms as she tried not to crush him despite the weight of his strong arms bearing down on her. Most of all, she was aware of her legs, which she kept squeezed together, resting between his. Every point of contact tingled so that she was fairly trembling.

 

Sandor kissed her fervently, one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand pressing against her upper back. The wind blew, causing her skirts to flap and expose her lower legs. The balmy air on her skin, on her legs, arms, chest, and face, had the feel of silk, of lapping water. Her hair was tossed about and she shook it back.

 

“Unpin your hair.” His raspy voice was nearly lost in the wind.

 

Sansa rolled onto her side a bit and expertly removed the pins, placing them on the bench as her hair cascaded down over her shoulder. She lay against Sandor again as the wind whipped through her hair, blowing it about wildly. Sansa knew she must look a terrible mess but Sandor was looking up at her with stark desire in his eyes. It sent a thrill through her and scared her all at once. She couldn’t hope to satisfy him, even if she knew how to begin. What she did know was that she wanted him to continue touching her and kissing her as the breeze caressed her bare flesh.

 

Before long, his hands were in her hair, clutching it, combing through it, lifting it for the wind to catch. He took a handful of it and gently tugged her head back, exposing her throat to his waiting mouth. Sandor kissed just beneath her chin and, arching against her, trailed kisses along the length of her throat before gently biting the side of her neck and releasing her hair.

 

Sansa’s heart was pounding. His teeth on her neck, dangerous and primal, sent shivers through her. She was being carried along in a current, unable and unwilling to pull herself out of it. She lay against him again but froze momentarily when she felt something in between them. More dangerous than his teeth was his arousal. She could neither acknowledge nor ignore it. The panic she'd felt when he'd carried her to his bed began to well up inside her again. She tried to push it down. _He must know . . ._

 

Her mind raced on anyway. 

 

What if he tried . . . ?

 

What if he wanted to . . . ?

 

What if _she_  wanted to . . . ?? 

 

At what point should she stop him? 

 

What if she didn't . . . ?

 

She'd been still too long. To cover her confusion, Sansa lowered her mouth to the side of Sandor’s face and gently sucked on his earlobe. He grunted softly as his hands played over her back. She drew the tip of her tongue up along the edge of his ear and then reversed its path, circling just inside his inner ear. Sandor chuckled low and shifted beneath her, his manhood grazing her leg and sending shivers through her.

 

A rumble of thunder sounded and a strong, hot wind buffeted the balcony, extinguishing the lantern and plunging them into darkness. Sansa stiffened for a moment and Sandor's arms locked around her. He chuckled again and rubbed her back, "It's alright, little bird."

 

She snuggled against him. His fingers on her back were making her drowsy until understanding jolted her. He was undoing her laces.

 

"Sandor?" she whispered, her voice almost a squeak.

 

"Mmm?"

 

 She wanted to ask him what he was doing but she knew what he was doing. Demanding that he stop seemed childish but things were moving so fast and she was rapidly losing control, scrabbling to find purchase. Anxiety closed her throat.

 

"Sit up."

 

Sansa could feel herself blushing as she pressed one hand to the front of her gown and placed the other on the stone to keep her balance. She moved back on to her knees, sitting on her ankles, and waited.

 

"Damn wind," he muttered as he sat up and moved his leg around her. He found her waist with his hands. 

 

Sansa looked out into the night. The blackness was absolute. A fire had not been lit in her room so there was no light coming from within. She could not see Sandor but she could feel _everything_ : the weight of his hands on her sides, the heaviness of her breasts, his knee against hers, a throb within her . . . but most of all she could feel the wind. The breeze undulated against her skin with a sensuality that made her want to moan with pleasure. She'd never felt a wind this warm yet this strong. Every nerve in her body seemed to respond to it, to crave its touch and be nourished by it. Her skin ached for exposure. It was as though _life_  was coursing through her and over her with every gust.

 

Just then lightning flashed and she saw Sandor raise his face to hers. She released the hand pressing her bodice and it fell slightly forward, letting the storm's air circulate around her breasts. Her nipples peaked at its touch. She shrugged a shoulder out of her gown and felt the wind draw her hair over it. Sandor's large hand bumped against her arm before reaching her shoulder and, finding it bare, he paused.

 

She barely heard him say, "Little bird." His fingers traced along her shoulder to her collarbone and moved down just slightly before leaving her skin. She pushed her gown off her other shoulder and it fell  until only the tips of her breasts were covered. Her back was open to the air and it felt wonderful, like silken feathers or a shower of petals or the fluttering of butterfly wings.

 

Sansa laughed. "The wind - it feels so good!"

 

"Fuck the wind," Sandor growled. He stood and yanked Sansa to her feet. His hands moved under her arms before plunging into her gown, shoving the fabric down and exposing her nearly to the waist.

 

A violent crack of thunder made them both jump and then rain hammered down. The wind, cool now, billowed over the balcony in waves, bringing with it the finest mist of water. Another flash of lightning showed Sandor looking down at her. He crushed her against him and then slid his hands down the length of her back, his fingertips pressing grooves into her skin. He clutched her waist just above her hips, kneading the flesh with his strong fingers. It almost hurt. His manhood was firm against her stomach but this time it didn't scare her. So much of him was hard that it seemed natural for his muscular length to be firm as well. Sansa placed her hands against his abdomen and felt the contoured muscle beneath. It wasn't enough. She slid her hands under his tunic and let her fingers explore the valleys between his muscles. Her thumbs detected indentations over the front of his hips that moved down toward . . . His manhood twitched against her stomach and Sandor curled over her, making a noise between a grunt and a cry. His hands moved up and down her back frantically. He was panting and Sansa's eyes widened in surprise. She was stunned to realize that this man, muscled like a bull as he was, was weak before her. The power her dagger bestowed was nothing by comparison. His hands pressed her closer and then dropped to her hips. His fingers found the trim on her smallclothes and, even in the darkness, Sansa sensed his confusion. He stilled and ran the trim between two fingertips, seeming to try to make out what it would look like. A deep _mmm_  rose from his throat and thunder rolled. He grabbed her arms and held her away from him. Lightning flashed a few times in succession, revealing him to be looking hungrily at her breasts. Darkness cloaked them again and his hands were around her waist. He seemed to be wrestling with himself but then he quickly slid his hands upward, his thumbs moving over her stomach, until they bumped into her breasts. Palms. A fumbling light squeeze. Fingertips. The brush of calloused flesh across them. And then he spun away, his ragged breathing audible even over the storm.

 

"Gods, enough, _enough_." He sounded almost angry. A flash showed him running a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face.

 

Another gale swept across the balcony, bringing with it a scattering of rain. A crash followed and Sansa wrenched her dress back up, Sandor quickly turning back to her. They were both breathing and listening hard. Sansa turned toward the doors, afraid someone had entered her room. _Lucy?_  Oh gods, she could not be found like this. Could. _Not._  She could tell Sandor was staring intently in the same direction. Another bolt of lightning split the sky and they both saw the shattered flowerpot on the stone. They exhaled as one. 

 

"Seven hells," Sandor muttered in disgust. He found her wrist and dragged her inside, closing the doors behind him before taking her wrist again and pulling her over to the bed. Sansa couldn't breathe. She'd never figured out where she should stop him and now they were here and he was so ready and she . . . she was floundering. 

 

Sandor dropped onto his side on the bed, his feet overhanging the end, before pulling her down with him. "I can't stay, little bird, but I can't leave yet."

 

Relief and objection pitched together inside her. "I know." Sansa wasn't sure why he couldn't leave yet but she was in no hurry to have him go. She rolled on to her opposite side, fitting her back against him. He moved his hips back but otherwise seemed content with that arrangement. His fingertips skimmed along her arm until they found her hand and he laced his fingers with hers. Sansa’s head lay on his arm and his breath blew over her ear, his cheek resting lightly on her temple. The familiar scent of him seemed to permeate the air and Sansa breathed it in deeply and slowly. They lay in silence and watched the storm rage outside. After awhile, Sansa could not say how long, Sandor said quietly, "I should go now. No one's like to be out in this rain."

 

They rose and walked to Sansa's door together. He held her hands as he bent down and kissed her softly, breaking away too soon.

 

After he was gone, Sansa slipped out of her gown and dampened smallclothes. The storm was moving on, though a steady rain continued to fall. Her room was growing close and she stepped toward the balcony to crack the doors open before putting on her nightgown. _The plate!_ It would look suspicious if it was out there in the morning so, despite the darkness, she crept out onto the balcony to retrieve it. The air, cooler and damp but still delicious against her bare skin, made her more alert and for a moment she stood still and let it wash over her body as the memories of Sandor's . . . was it loving? She smiled at the thought . . . played again in her mind. The memories made an achy tension pool in her lips, breasts, and between her legs. Something deep within her called to be satisfied but Sansa didn't know how to answer. She knew for a certainty that only Sandor could fulfill whatever that need was and she longed to be able to let him. She missed him already and, moving to the bench, she felt around for her hairpins, remembering the hungry look on his face when she'd undone her hair for him. A sigh escaped her lips. The end of their time together was coming. She didn't know when, she only wondered what would happen before then and how she would feel afterwards.

 

Sansa shook off the thought, picked up the plate, and returned inside. She washed up and crawled into bed naked, wishing Sandor was there to take her in his arms. The feel of the sheets on her skin was a poor substitute for the playful lashing of the wind. Sansa tossed and turned for a long time. When Sandor left, he'd said he'd see her on the morrow. Sansa wasn't sure if she'd imagined the emphasis he put on  _see._


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Sansa rose early, despite being tired. She did not know when she'd see Sandor but she knew she should try to keep to her usual routine, no matter how little it interested her.

 

"Will you be going to the market today, my lady?" Lucy asked as she helped Sansa dress.

 

"No, San- . . . Sandor Clegane advised against it. He said the rain would make the streets muddy and difficult to travel."

 

Lucy nodded in approval before bustling off to tend to Sansa's laundry. Sansa looked herself over in the mirror before casting her eyes toward the balcony. She'd felt free and powerful last night. Yes, it was a little embarrassing to think that Sandor had seen her naked breasts but it had only been when the lightning flashed. A part of her wanted him to look at her again and a part of her wanted to show herself to him. A blush crept up her cheeks at the idea. She'd made certain she put on pretty smallclothes that morning, silky things that made her feel like a woman grown. She wondered what Sandor's reaction would be if, her breath caught at the thought of  _when_ , he saw them but then shook herself out of such unladylike thoughts. 

 

Sansa clasped the bracelet Sandor had given her around her wrist and slipped the dagger into her pocket. She made her way to the dining hall and broke her fast with Septa Mordane. The two then spent a peaceful hour praying at the sept. As her septa knelt before the Crone, Sansa looked up at the Maiden and wondered if she'd ever longed to be otherwise. The statue of the Maiden smiled beatifically, forever untouched and seemingly happy to be so. For the first time, Sansa's sense of kinship with the Maiden was tinged with pity. There was joy to be had in . . . in Sandor's arms. It seemed a shame to be deprived of that.  _Perhaps the Maiden does not long for . . ._  Sansa wondered what it was _she_ longed for. Sandor, certainly, but the power to choose primarily. Sansa would remain a maid until her father allowed her marriage to Joffrey to take place, until the king and queen set a date, and until Joffrey chose to deflower her, no doubt right away. Of course, the marriage would only take place if there was no question her maidenhead was intact. All that was expected of Sansa was that she preserve her body until it was ready to be used by others to secure their own arrangements. The injustice of this, for injustice she now perceived it to be, made her uncomfortable and frustrated almost to the point of being angry. Sandor had given her a choice last night and she had chosen wrong when taking everybody but herself into consideration. She could not feel there was anything wrong in sharing what she'd shared with Sandor. He felt like sanctuary to her and she suspected he might feel the same about her. Still, truth be told, she was afraid of losing her maidenhead. She'd heard it would hurt and there would be blood and mess and just the thought made her shudder.

 

"Is anything amiss, my dear?"

 

"It's kind of you to inquire." Sansa took a steadying breath. "I'm merely tired. The storm kept me awake last night."

 

"Yes, it was quite a gale. It would have left us a foot of snow at home."

 

Sansa agreed but, much as she missed her home, Sandor was not there and so the north, at least for the present, had lost some of its appeal.

 

After leaving the sept, she and Septa Mordane made their way back toward the castle, picking their way around puddles and tracts of mud. The sky was the color of dull steel and a dampness hung in the air.

 

"Lady Sansa."

 

Sansa had not been aware of anyone behind them and hearing his voice so much earlier than she'd hoped to threw her heart into a spin.

 

"Good morning, my lord." Sansa fought to keep from grinning. He met her eye but his gaze dropped to her chest for just a moment and she felt her composure slip. Last night had been so wonderful she could scarcely stand still, the thrill of anticipation was coursing through her so violently. For his part, he looked as indifferent as ever and perhaps a little tired. 

 

"I ask your leave to spend the morning in the training yard, if you have no need of an escort."

 

"The morning is yours, my lord. I don't anticipate leaving the Red Keep today."

 

Sandor nodded and headed in the direction of the stables.

 

"He's no fit guard for a lady of your standing, Sansa, dear, the Seven spare me for saying so," Septa Mordane intoned, her forehead creasing in displeasure.

 

The memory of the wind on her bare skin and the feel of Sandor against her as they lay in bed together suddenly made her blood run warmer. "He's one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, Septa Mordane."

 

"A killer, and you, such a fine lady," her septa sniffed. "Surely one of the knights could have seen to your safety while the hunt goes on, if not someone from our  _own_  household."

 

"He is better than any knight," Sansa replied immediately, aware that a trace of vehemence had entered her tone. "Queen Cersei would not have Prince Joffrey protected by anyone lesser. Everyone knows how much she loves her children."

 

"As you say, my lady, but Prince Joffrey is a boy and, while such rough company may do well enough for a lad, a lady's escort should be gentle and refined."

 

"I'm quite certain my lady mother and lord father would agree, having chosen you as my septa and companion."

 

Septa Mordane looked highly gratified and patted Sansa's arm affectionately.

 

"Don't fear for me while Sandor Clegane has charge of my care, septa. His address may be lacking but my safety is assured. And it is only for a little while," she added, striving to sound matter-of-fact instead of wistful.

 

"You have the right of it I'm sure, my dear. Your charming betrothed will return soon along with the rest of the court and things will be as they were."

 

Sansa pushed a smile onto her face as her heart sank. "Just so."

 

***

 

After she and Septa Mordane parted company, Sansa wandered about the castle. She considered going to watch Sandor train but a part of her resisted. So much had happened the previous night, she needed time to digest it, much as she wanted to be with him again. He'd excused himself from her company so perhaps he needed some space as well. 

 

Eventually, Sansa found herself at the library. Tyrion Lannister was gathering up some books as she arrived. Hearing her footfall, he turned. "Ah, Lady Sansa. What brings you here? I was not aware that you were a great reader."

 

Sansa fought off a frown. Did  _all_ of the Lannisters think her unintelligent? "I enjoy reading very much, Lord Tyrion, but the day is so dreary I thought perhaps a book of songs would be just the thing to lift the gloom."

 

"I prefer history, even with the gloom, but, if you'll permit me, I believe we have one or two books of song that might serve."

 

Sansa followed as the Imp waddled amongst the bookcases. After he stopped and scanned the shelves, he pointed to one above even Sansa's head. "That one there may interest you."

 

Sansa reached for a volume. 

 

"No, the other, the green binding." 

 

Sansa laid her hand on the correct book and pulled it down from the shelf. 

 

"Yes, that's the one. It was a favorite of Myrcella's when she was small and I read it to her often. The songs are organized chronologically by region of origin so, in a way, it's a historical text as well."

 

Sansa flipped through the pages and saw maps and beautiful illustrations along with a number of songs she didn't recognize. She was excited at the prospect of losing herself within them for a little while. She smiled at Lord Tyrion. "This will do perfectly. Thank you ever so much."

 

The Imp inclined his head. His mismatched eyes disconcerted her but she held her smile. "Enjoy, Lady Sansa." He made his way back toward the front of the library and, after a moment, Sansa heard him leave.

 

She walked to a marble alcove removed from the shelves where a grate contained a small fire. Sansa pulled a chair close and sunk into the cushions, drawing her feet up under her and eagerly opening the book. She decided to begin in the north and smiled as she read through the songs she’d heard and sung all her life. Towards the end of the section was a song she didn’t know called  _The First Man_. The illustrations were done in deep shades of black and red with touches of blue and grey. The First Man depicted sat tall on his lively black horse, glaring out of the page with the confidence of a conqueror, his dark hair caught in the wind, his strong hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The familiarity of that look jolted her and she stared back at him for a long moment before moving on to the lyrics.

 

_See him there, on his horse so fierce,_

_Long bronze sword, made to pierce,_

_Leather shield is his defense,_

_Grey eyes narrowed, muscles tense,_

_Think none stronger crossed this land,_

_For he is the first, he is the First Man._

 

_Hear him there, rasping in Old Tongue,_

_Harsh, cold language, no songs to be sung,_

_There is truth in his words, however told,_

_Angry, bitter, sullen, bold,_

_He may be savage but understand,_

_Solitary is the First Man._

 

_Sheltered there, 'hind his icy wall,_

_A steady warmth will melt it all,_

_Leaving him open and unprotected,_

_Hunted, hated, unaccepted,_

_So, cold and solid, built to plan,_

_It is this wall that protects the First Man._

 

_Forgive him then, for cutting trees,_

_Setting fire to the dark red leaves,_

_He trusts his strength and his eyes alone,_

_As he strives to build his home,_

_Opposition will not long stand,_

_Against the proud and strong First Man._

 

_Know the children were strong, too,_

_And fought with water, deep and blue,_

_From their gods they drew their power,_

_Flooding the Neck from atop their Tower,_

_Then peace was forged across the land,_

_They lived in union with the First Man._

 

_Trust him then, for he made a pact,_

_Protecting those he once attacked,_

_Horse and shield and sword he turned,_

_Weirwood trees he left unburned,_

_Think none more loyal, take his hand,_

_For he is the first, he is the First Man._

 

The song reminded her of Sandor in many ways and Sansa sat feeling thoughtful for some time.  _First, indeed,_ she mused.

 

She chided herself for not using their time apart to do something other than think about him so she turned the page and tried to be absorbed by  _The Night That Ended._ She wondered how Jon was and if taking the black had made him happy or if his experience, like her own in King's Landing, had not quite lived up to his expectations. With a sigh, she moved on to the Riverlands and absently read over the lyrics to  _On a Misty Morn._  These songs reminded her too much of her mother and she could feel herself sinking into glumness. Surely a rousing song would be found in the catalog from the Iron Islands. She read  _Steel Rain_  with marginal interest. The tune was lively enough but the subject matter didn't interest her. Her heart was not to be captivated by images of rain and the sea on this overcast day. Finally she gave in and flipped to the songs of the Westerlands. Sansa skipped over the ones about Lann the Clever, being in no mood to celebrate Lannister history. Historical ballads for the region were otherwise few and far between (she noticed  _The Rains of Castamere_  was not in the volume, indicating it had been compiled at least two generations ago) but she did, however, come across a pretty song called  _My Knight._ Each stanza was illustrated with a gilt-edged oval depicting in lush greens, cool whites, and calm grays the scene described.

 

_Brave and strong and fair and true,_

_All these things to me are you,_

_Let me join you on your horse,_

_And we will trot a merry course,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

_Shining steel and sharpened lance,_

_Thundering hooves on summer grass,_

_Beating hearts and courtly speech,_

_Victory's within your reach,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

_Righteous cause and noble deed,_

_Handsome knight on fearless steed,_

_Truth and justice brought to pass,_

_Grateful lord, admiring lass,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

_Tie a ribbon to your sword,_

_As you leave to serve your lord,_

_My faithfulness will never waver,_

_To you alone I give my favor,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

_And when you once again return,_

_Our lips will meet, our hearts will churn,_

_And I will pray I may deserve,_

_My lord, my husband, and my_ ser _,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

_Build us castles in the sky,_

_And up to them we both shall fly,_

_Stars and clouds our neighbors be,_

_And I will love eternally,_

_My knight, my knight, my knight._

 

Sansa sighed at the sweetness of the images and wished she'd known this song as a child. She read it over and over again until she had the words and melody committed to heart. After that the Reach's W _hen Willum's Wife was Wet_  and Dorne's  _The Dornishman's Wife_  held no attraction for her. A simple life with the love of a good man formed her idea of the seven heavens. Sansa closed the book and stared into the fire, Sandor lingering at the edges of her thoughts. A couple of hours had passed and her rumbling stomach made her extract herself from her upholstered cocoon.

 

On the way to the dining hall, she walked along an exterior corridor and saw Sandor and Harry in the yard below. She stepped back into the shadows and watched as Sandor pulled off his dog's-head helm and shook out his long, sweaty hair before tipping his head back to drink deeply from a wineskin. Harry was saying something to him and Sandor nodded before taking another drink. A few knights were there but the field was mainly composed of men-at-arms. The atmosphere was mild, it contented Sansa to see, and she walked on. 

 

Jeyne was in the dining hall and Sansa joined her, grateful for the distraction. They caught up with each other as they ate and, over cards in Jeyne's room later, they made plans to pack a meal and eat outside the following afternoon. Sansa returned to her own room and took her sewing out to the balcony. The clouds were breaking to let the late afternoon sun warm the fields and she hummed as she stitched, missing at first the knocking on her door. It was Sandor.

 

"I've come to escort you to the dining hall for the evening meal."

 

"How very thoughtful. Thank you. I'll be ready in just a moment." 

 

He followed her to the doors leading to the balcony but did not step outside while she gathered up her sewing. When Sansa turned, she saw him looking at the stone bench and felt the weight of his eyes on her when she returned inside and made ready to leave. After Sandor closed the door behind them, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and softly ran his fingertips over her knuckles as they walked down the stairs. She breathed in the clean scent of him and felt as content as could be until they exited the Tower. Sansa then adopted a neutral expression and Sandor conducted her through the muddy courtyard in the most perfunctory manner. They entered the castle and she reluctantly released his arm. She should have had food sent to her room and asked Sandor to dine with her again. Instead, she sat with Arya, who cast a malevolent glare at Sandor, who smirked in return before taking up a post against the wall.

 

"I wish you two would be civil."

 

"I wish he hadn't killed my friend."

 

"I wish he hadn't, either, but you know it was under orders."

 

Arya wrinkled her nose. "He  _knew_  Micah didn't attack Joffrey. He  _knew_  it!"

 

"Lower your voice, please. He wasn't there so he didn't  _know_. Let's not argue about this again."

 

Her sister gave her a look but only said, "Why do you care anyway? The Hound doesn't care. He just growls and snaps at me."

 

"Perhaps because you attack him all the time."

 

"I don't -"

 

"Arya,  _please._ " Sansa tried to think of a way to convince her to stop being so impolite to Sandor. "Maybe it . . .  _bothers_  him that he had to . . . do that."

 

Arya scoffed as she spooned some gravy over her potatoes. 

 

"Not everyone gets to do as they please all the time."

 

"Joffrey does."

 

"You're right."  Arya looked mollified by that. Sansa continued quietly, "He gets to have Sandor do his bidding and Joffrey is not always fair."

 

“He’s  _never_  fair.”

 

“No. He’s not,” Sansa answered, her voice barely a whisper.

 

Arya looked at Sandor from under her brow and seemed to consider Sansa's words for a moment. When she spoke again, Sansa was prepared for another argument and so she was surprised when, instead, Arya said, "So he's  _Sandor_  now?"

 

The air seemed to freeze in Sansa's lungs. "He is not a  _ser_  or a lord and I think calling him  _Hound_  is rude."

 

Arya took a large bite of chicken and chewed it while looking at Sansa. Sansa did not want to discuss Sandor any further so she asked, "How are your dancing lessons going?"

 

Her sister's eyes dropped to her plate. "They're fine."

 

"What are you learning?"

 

Arya named a couple of northern dances in a somewhat questioning tone.

 

"Why are you being taught those? It's not likely we'll do them while in the south."

 

"I don't know!" she snapped. "I just do what the dancing master tells me to do!"

 

Sansa didn't understand why her sister had to be so touchy. She surmised that the lessons must not have improved her sister's skill. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sure they're a good foundation, and you won't be living in King's Landing forever so maybe that's why you're learning them."

 

"Maybe."

 

Sansa delicately cut her string beans as Arya took a drink from her goblet. "Jeyne and I are going to eat our midday meal outside tomorrow. Would you like to come with us?"

 

"Maybe," Arya answered absently, looking around the hall.

 

Sansa dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She was a little put out that she was making such an effort to be courteous when Arya could scarcely be bothered to do the same. It frustrated her all the more because she wanted to spend every moment with Sandor and knowing she couldn't made her edgy. She couldn't even  _talk_  about him - not with Jeyne and certainly not with Arya. Sansa missed her mother so much and, not for the first time, she wished she had a sister more like herself and less like the bruised and wild one across the table. The stress of hiding her affair (the very term made her wince) coupled with the excitement and uncertainty she felt over her increasing intimacy with Sandor made her nerves raw and ragged. If she discussed her worries with Sandor, for she'd never be able to tell him how he made her blood fizz with joy, he'd take it as a sign of rejection or, worse, decide the matter for her and stay away. No, she was stuck. Filling the hours she couldn't be with Sandor was taxing enough without enduring her sister's incivilities. Really, what was so hard about making polite conversation?

 

"What are your plans for tomorrow, that you'd rather not come with us?"

 

"What?" Arya dragged her gaze back over to her sister.

 

"I was asking about your plans, since you don't want to join us."

 

"Who?"

 

"Jeyne and me. What do you keep looking for?"

 

"Nothing."

 

Sansa huffed out a sigh. She let her eyes move to where Sandor was standing. He was looking at her, his expression as stony as ever. She frowned, feeling inexplicably cranky and ill-suited to be in company. He approached the table. "Yes, Lady Sansa?"

 

"I'm ready to return to my room."

 

"I'll go back with you," Arya chimed.

 

Now _she starts paying attention?_ Sansa thought a little resentfully.

 

The three of them walked through the castle and out into the courtyard. Sandor offered Sansa his arm and she leaned into him. Arya hopped over puddles, making Sansa want to scream. At least she wasn't spraying them with mud. When they finally reached Arya's room, Sansa gave her sister a prompting look.

 

"Goodnight, Sansa." A pause. "Thank you for seeing me back,  _Sandor,_ " she added with a wicked smile.

 

Sansa opened her mouth to scold her sister but Arya ducked into her room and shut the door with a laugh.

 

"I apologize for her free speech."

 

"Seems a habit with you Stark girls."

 

Sansa stiffened.

 

Sandor brought his mouth close to her ear. "I like it. You're honest."

 

Sansa smiled shyly and they climbed the stairs arm-in-arm and walked down the hall in silence. Sansa's heart stopped when Sandor followed her into her room and encircled her from behind with his arms. He bent to kiss the back of her neck, sending little tremors of pleasure down her spine.

 

"You're teasing me."

 

Sandor gave a surprised laugh. "I can do more than tease, girl, don't you worry about that."

 

Sansa's stomach clenched.

 

He chuckled low. "Or is that what you want?" He leaned over her and kissed her collarbone, the hands that had been at her sides sliding up just slightly.

 

Sansa hedged awkwardly. There was no right answer. She wanted more but how much more, she wasn't sure. More than was good for her, probably, especially if he kept kissing her.

 

“What do you want?"

 

"All," he answered quietly, his lips moving from her collarbone over her shoulder to her back. He pushed her gown aside and kissed along her back to the top of her arm, making Sansa squirm. “Send your maid away for the night. Let me have you.”

 

“Now you really are teasing me.” She giggled nervously as heat blotched her skin.

 

Sandor moved to stand in front of her, amusement playing across his features. In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and was carrying her to bed. He laid her down and let his weight press her into the feather mattress. His lips found her neck and trailed down lower and suddenly a hand was on her breast.

 

Sansa was suffocating. Sandor exhaled noisily and kissed between her breasts, his hand pressing one against his face before he turned to draw his tongue over the top of it. His fingertips dipped into her gown, taking the entirety of her breast into his broad palm. Sansa's hands fluttered against his arms, wanting to stop him and wanting to succumb at the same time. Her mind was racing in circles, helpless against the instincts of her body. "Mmm," she murmured.

 

"More, little bird?" He turned his wrist, forcing the fabric of her gown aside, exposing her. Her nipple was between his lips before she could draw breath to answer. His suckling seemed to churn a well of desire within her. She pressed herself against him, her strength to refuse him all but gone.

 

"Much more," she breathed.

 

Sandor chuckled and returned to her breast, freeing the other one moments later and sipping at it softly. He pressed a kiss to her breastbone while squeezing her flesh against either side of his face. "Gods, you're perfect," he murmured.

 

For some reason, tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

 

When she didn't answer, he drew back to look at her. "I'd satisfy you if I could. Believe that."

 

Warmth stole over Sansa's cheeks. "I do. And I . . . I would . . ."

 

Joy suffused his face. At least, that's what Sansa thought it was, never having seen him look that way before. "Would you?" he rasped, looking intently into her eyes, his own oddly glassy.

 

The Maiden help her, it was the truth. She nodded, terrified to voice what might be taken for a promise. Fear pressed the air out of her lungs. He leaned in to kiss her while gently pulling up the neckline of her gown. He stood and pulled her to her feet, hugging her hard against him. Sansa felt him draw in a deep shaky breath. An instant later he shoved her away and sprang toward the door.

 

Lucy walked in carrying a basket of clothing, singing under her breath, but froze when she saw her lady was not alone. "I beg your pardon."

 

"There is nothing to pardon, Lucy." She looked at Sandor, her mind emptying of everything but what she’d just said.

 

"The market streets are still likely to be muddy tomorrow, Lady Sansa." He sounded bored.

 

"Perhaps you're right."

 

"I am. I won't have my horse going lame because he slipped in the mud."

 

Sansa tried to summon a look of annoyance. Lucy was staring at Sandor, a shocked look on her face. "I've been indoors all day and would like some fresh air. You may escort me to the godswood tomorrow, if you think it will be dry enough."

 

He shrugged. "You don't need my horse to go to the godswood."

 

Lucy seemed to realize she was staring and moved toward Sansa's wardrobe.

 

"Fine. I will meet you in the main hall tomorrow after I break my fast. Lucy, has the cobbler returned my boots?"

 

"I will look, Lady Sansa." She exited into the dressing room.

 

Sandor bowed his head briefly. "My lady.”

 

"My lord," Sansa answered a little breathlessly.

 

“Until tomorrow.”


	8. Chapter 8

That night Sansa dreamed. She was reclining in bed, the soles of her feet firm on the feather mattress. She began to bleed.  _Oh no, not on the sheet._  But she couldn't move her feet and the blood continued to trickle forth, gathering and pooling vertically, the volume more than what made sense for the flow. Her belly felt sore. Surely this much blood-loss boded ill. She began to feel panicked. She couldn't move from the waist down. The wall of blood loomed higher and higher and then it began to take shape, bulging out here and there, a head forming atop massive shoulders. Drips ran down half the head, sinking into deep, dark crags, the other half was smooth. It continued to define itself and she realized it was Sandor. A part of her felt relieved but his bloody form continued to grow, towering above her prone body, and then he began to pitch forward, solid as a statue despite his liquid state. She braced herself as best she could, feet, hips, back, and elbows frozen to the bed as they were. Horrifyingly slow was his descent. She tried to scream but couldn't. He finally crashed into her with a mighty splash, soaking her, drowning her, washing over and into her, filling her and making her sputter, her skin and bedding awash with the thick, sticky blood. She closed her mouth only to find it filling from the inside. She turned and spat, disgusted and desperate. It was too much. Too much! Suddenly cool air rushed into her lungs and Sansa sprang upright in her bed, breathlessly relieved to be awake. She gasped a few times as her heart slowed to a more normal pace. Sansa looked around, expecting to find her sheets blood-soaked though she knew it to be a dream. Relief was overtaken by confusion. What had that been about? She shook the image of Sandor, terrifying in his inevitability, from her mind, threw back the covers, and quickly walked to her balcony. The brisk morning air washed the remnants of panic away. The sounds of men and horses in the courtyard below had never been more welcome.

 

 _Silly girl._ Sansa took one more deep breath and moved into her morning routine, determinedly pushing the dream's images from her mind each time they threatened to intrude. She nibbled at the fruit and bread Lucy had brought to break her fast and then left a little early to meet Sandor. 

 

***

 

The main hall was empty, save for the morning sun streaming in the windows. Sansa looked at the various tapestries decorating the walls as she waited for Sandor to arrive to escort her to the godswood. The light footsteps approaching from behind told her someone besides Sandor had arrived.

 

"You look so like your mother with the sun in your hair."

 

Sansa turned. "Good morning, Lord Baelish."

 

"It was, but you have bettered it, Lady Sansa," the master of coin replied, bowing extravagantly. When he rose, his grey-green eyes swept over her, a look of mocking approval settling on his handsome features.

 

Something about her mother's childhood friend always made Sansa feel unwillingly exposed. "You are kind to say so, my lord."

 

His smile didn't reach his ever-appraising eyes as he said, "Allow my kindness to extend past my words for I am at your service, my lady."

 

Sansa looked down to hide her confusion. She did not want Lord Baelish's company but his position, his association with her mother, and Sansa's own nature prevented her from issuing a curt dismissal. Besides, he had never _done_  anything to her; it was his _manner_ she found unsettling. "I am bound for the godswood, my lord, to pray for my lord father's safety, and for that of the king and prince, as well. The prince's own sworn shield protects me while he is gone so I need not trouble you. I know you must be busy with more important things."

 

"I hope you never believe me too busy to be a friend to you," he said quietly as he stepped closer.

 

"No, my lord. I . . . I am grateful for your kindness to my family."

 

A coolness passed over his face and it chilled her. "I was ever a friend to your Aunt Lysa, as well. The Tully girls and I were . . . quite close, growing up. You have the Tully look." He raised a hand as though he would touch her hair but heavy footsteps sounded in the hall and he lowered his hand to his side.

 

"I will pray for her as well."

 

He gave her a withering look. "As you wish but the gods aren't the only ones who answer the prayers of pretty girls on their knees. You might look for a surer source of return one day."

 

Sansa wasn't sure of his meaning. "As you say. Good day, Lord Baelish."

 

The tight smile returned to his face. "Lady Sansa." He sketched a bow and was gone.

 

Sansa turned toward Sandor's arrival. He was wearing light brown breeches and a blue tunic that darkened his gray eyes. His sword was strapped to his back and two wineskins rested at his hip. "Were you talking to someone?" he asked.

 

"Lord Baelish."

 

Sandor curled his lip. "What did he want?"

 

Sansa repeated the conversation but Sandor made no reply beyond a grunt. 

 

***

 

The godswood was cool, the sunlight filtering through the tree canopy dappling the grass below. Sansa knelt on her cloak, bowed her head, and began to pray.

 

"You're actually praying? You should practice with your dagger some more."

 

"I will but I want to pray first." She bowed her head again. She'd barely begun to ask the gods to watch over her father when Sandor interrupted again.

 

"Are you really going to pray for Joffrey, like you told Lord Baelish?"

 

Sansa's shoulders slumped as she turned toward him. "Yes. I'll ask the gods to give him a merciful heart."

 

Sandor snorted.

 

"I'll pray for you, too, if you like."

 

He looked amused. "And why would the gods care about me?"

 

"Because I do."

 

Sandor's face became more serious. "What would you ask them?"

 

Sansa thought for a moment. "To watch over you."

 

Sandor drew his sword and tapped the blade against his opposite palm. "I can watch over myself."

 

"To watch over us, then."

 

Sandor gave her a look she couldn't read but said nothing further so Sansa resumed her prayers to the soft crush of grass and the _whoosh_  of Sandor's sword as he practiced his swordwork behind her.

 

When she finished, he said, "Let's go over what I showed you the other day." 

 

For the next hour and a half, Sansa repeated the various moves, putting Sandor in front of her so she'd have something at which to aim. The large clearing in the godswood made everything feel different. There was more space in which to move but also more sides from which she was vulnerable. Whenever she began to feel overwhelmed or frustrated, Sandor would say, "You're doing well," or demonstrate again what he wanted her to do, explaining why it would be effective. Sansa worked hard at it, wanting to see that look of pride in Sandor's eyes whenever she performed competently. After spending awhile fending off attacks from behind, Sansa was huffing and puffing and they decided to rest for a bit.

 

They settled in the grass, Sandor offering her one of the wineskins, which Sansa accepted gratefully. She soaked in the peace of the godswood, so quiet and private, a world apart from the grime and noise of King's Landing. Sandor sat cross-legged and rested his sword across his thighs. He produced a whetstone and showed Sansa how to hone the edge of her dagger before dragging it over his sword's blade. The steady _shhh shhh shhh_  was lulling. Dragon's Breath was growing nearby and Sansa picked one of the dark red blooms, twirling the stem between two fingers and brushing the soft petals against her nose. She began to hum quietly, causing Sandor to glance over at her with a smile. She wanted to lean against him but he needed his arms to work the whetstone over the steel so she shifted and tentatively rested her back against his. "Does that bother you?"

 

"No."

 

Sansa relaxed more of her weight against him, her head between his shoulder blades, the rolling of his muscles rocking her agreeably. She pinched a crimson petal between her fingertips and moved them back and forth over the waxy surface. Under her breath, she began to sing. "Brave and strong and fair and true, all these things to me are you . . ." She was most of the way through _My Knight_ when she realized Sandor was sitting straight and very still.

 

"I'm sorry. Was I distracting you?"

 

"No. It's been years since I've heard that song."

 

"You know it?"

 

"Aye." He sounded sad. "Finish singing it. If you like."

 

Sansa turned and knelt, wrapping her arms around Sandor's neck, her belly against his back. She sang it softly from the beginning, Sandor taking a few halfhearted swipes along his blade with the whetstone before he just stopped and listened. "Stars and clouds our neighbors be, and I will love eternally, my knight, my knight, my knight." Her voice trailed off and they both remained still for a long moment.

 

Sandor brought one of her hands to his mouth and gently kissed the back of it. Sansa kissed his cheek in return. "How do you know that song?" she asked.

 

"My mother used to sing it to me and my sister after her."

 

Sansa stood and walked around him before seating herself again where she could see his face. "Will you tell me about them?"

 

Sandor pressed his lips together. "Not much to tell. They're both dead."

 

"I'm sorry." She had known Sandor over a year now and had never thought of him as having a mother. Or a father. Certainly not a sister. Ser Gregor, who was pure nemesis, seemed to exist merely to bring pain and destruction to the lives of everyone he encountered. Sansa looked at Sandor, half his face ridged with leather-like scars because of his brother, the other half plain, though not unattractive. There was a well of kindness within him, of patience, intelligence, and understanding. How had the whole of Westeros not noticed it after all these years?

 

"My mother died giving birth to my sister."

 

It was a common-enough event, though still tragic, and Sansa made a sympathetic noise. 

 

"It might have been for the best. She never knew what Gregor became. Or me."

 

Sansa did not want to speak ill of his brother so she asked, "What of your father?" She already knew that, after Sandor's being burned, his father put about a story that his bedding had caught fire, rather than holding Gregor responsible. Gregor, who had put his brother's face against a brazier's coals for daring to play with a toy knight too childish for a boy of Gregor's age.

 

"Hunting accident. Gregor was with him. I left the next day." He looked down and ran his thumb along the edge of his sword, the thinnest line of red showing a moment later.

 

A chill ran down Sansa's spine. She didn't want to ask.

 

Sandor went on. "My sister, Alynor, would sing that song to me. She knew I wanted to be a knight."

 

Sansa was riveted. Her mind rapidly filled in the huge gaps between Sandor's few words.

 

"I came home one day and she wasn't waiting for me. An accident, they said, but I knew. They wouldn't let me see her body. I never found out what he did to her." He put the pad of his thumb to his lips and sucked off the blood.

 

Tears welled up in Sansa's eyes. How he must hate that song. "I'm sorry. I won't sing it again."

 

"I tried to forget her. I only put her portrait on my mantel after we came back from Winterfell."

 

Sansa didn't know what to say.

 

"I don't want to forget her, little bird, or the song she used to sing me."

 

Sansa threw herself at him then, burying her face in his neck and crying freely. "It's not right," she sobbed. Sandor held her tight and she felt a wetness at her temple. When she at last pulled away from him, cuffing at her eyes and sniffing, Sandor stood and took a step away.

 

He gazed into the trees. When he turned around, he reached out his hand and pulled Sansa to her feet. "Get out your dagger. There's more I can show you."

 

Sansa did as he asked and set her feet so she was balanced yet able to advance upon him.

 

"You're going to aim for my side. Put your other hand up like this." He held his one hand in a defensive position.

 

Sansa made ready. 

 

"Block me." He moved one arm at less than half-speed.

 

Sansa blocked that arm and made to plant her sheathed dagger between his ribs.

 

It was then that the third person in the godswood made their presence known.


	9. Chapter 9

A figure emerging from the trees caused Sandor and Sansa to turn simultaneously. Sandor sprang forward while Sansa, paralyzed with fear, felt a scream rising in her throat. Sandor's broad back blocked her view but she heard a familiar voice cry, "What are you doing?!" and then her sister danced back out of his reach. Sansa nearly fainted with relief but Sandor caught Arya by the wrist and dragged her forward.

 

"How long have you been here?" he demanded angrily, shaking her arm.

 

"Get  _off_  me!" Arya wrenched her arm back but Sandor would not let go.

 

"Spying, are you? Stark bitch or not, I'll -"

 

"Let go of her!"

 

Sandor was in a towering rage and he shoved Arya away so hard she stumbled and nearly fell. He was breathing heavily, radiating menace, every inch the Hound. He kept his sword low but the tip of his blade was pointed up and Sansa knew it would only take the work of an instant for him to cut Arya to ribbons. Sansa was reasonably certain he  _wouldn't_ but she also knew Arya wouldn't hesitate to provoke him and, so, she hurried to intercede. "Arya, what are you doing here?"

 

Arya rubbed her arm where Sandor had grabbed her and threw him a dark look before she turned her attention to her sister. "I came to find you."

 

Sansa's blood was still careening through her veins. She could hardly think straight. She only knew she'd avoided by the narrowest possible margin a life-destroying if not deadly scandal. Sansa knew well Arya's dislike of Sandor but at least, at  _least_ , she could be depended upon not to spread vicious gossip about her sister.

 

"How did you know I was here? Did you talk to Lord Baelish?"

 

"What? Lord Baelish? No. Why would I talk to  _him_?"

 

"Then how - ?"

 

"I asked Lucy."

 

Sansa wilted.  _Lucy_. Of course.

 

"And how long were you sneaking through the bushes?" Sandor barked. Violent intentions were practically running off him.

 

"I wasn't  _sneaking._  I was just . . . quiet as a cat." She sounded proud, though Sansa couldn't imagine what there was to be proud of.

 

"Quiet as a cat," Sandor rumbled with contempt, spitting in the dirt. "Bugger that. Dead as a doornail if I ever catch you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong again."

 

Arya opened her mouth to retort but Sansa cut her off. "Why were you looking for me?"

 

With a show of ignoring Sandor, Arya turned to answer. "I thought I'd come with you and Jeyne."

 

"Oh!" Sansa was surprised Arya had heard the invitation, given her inattention the previous day.

 

"I didn't know  _he'd_  be here. Is  _he_  going, too?"

 

"Yes," Sansa answered automatically. "He . . . he has to."

 

For a moment the three of them stood there, Sandor glaring at Arya, Sansa sagging with relief, and Arya looking around the clearing with interest.

 

"So . . . what were you doing?"

 

" _Nothing_ ," Sandor snapped. "And if you ever say otherwise, I'll -"

 

"It didn't look like nothing. It looked like -"

 

"What did I just say, wolf-bitch? It was  _nothing_."

 

Sansa made to put her hand on Sandor's forearm but Arya's eyes narrowed at the gesture so she tried to make it look like she was waving off his words.

 

"Arya, it wasn't -”

 

"Is he showing you how to fight?" She sounded interested rather than accusatory.

 

"Yes. Well, no. Not exactly. It's more defensive than -"

 

"Why?"

 

"What's that?" Sandor asked, nodding toward a short, slim sword hanging from Arya's belt that Sansa hadn't noticed before.

 

"It's  _mine_ ," she said, laying a hand on the hilt and turning her hip away from Sandor.

 

"It's castle-forged."

 

"So?"

 

"Ayra." Sandor and Arya both looked at Sansa. " _Please_  don't tell Father about this. It would upset him. Please don't tell  _anyone_."

 

Arya gave her sister an assessing look. "I won't. So long as you don't tell anyone about  _this,_ " she said, indicating her sword. "Especially not Septa Mordane."

 

"I won't."

 

"You, either," Arya said aggressively to Sandor.

 

"Pffft. Barely enough steel there to make a spoon."

 

Arya glared at him. Before they could continue bickering, Sansa said, "If you're going to come with us, we need to tell Jeyne to make sure there's enough food."

 

"I'll tell her," Arya said, about to sprint off.

 

"We can walk back together." Sansa didn't add that she was still scared from their near-discovery and the three of them being seen together would look far less suspicious than she and Sandor being seen too much in their own company.

 

*

 

Once they were back in the castle, Arya went to find Jeyne and Sandor escorted Sansa to her room, standing in the hall as she washed up for her outing with her friend. When she was ready, they made their way to the field Sansa and Jeyne had decided would be the perfect place to gather. Jeyne and Arya were already there and, not to Sansa's surprise, so was Willard. Their greeting of her was warm, Sandor's reception was less so. A large blanket was spread on the ground and Jeyne and Arya had begun to set out food, Willard cutting slices off a roast. While Sandor tethered their horses, Sansa sat and began to split rolls, only noticing after a moment that Sandor remained standing upon his return.

 

"Won't you sit, my lord?"

 

"No." His eyes scanned the horizon as though expecting to see enemy hordes spilling over the hilltops at any moment.

 

"You must be hungry."

 

"I'm not."

 

Sansa was growing frustrated. This wouldn't be any fun if Sandor did not join in. "I insist," she said gently.

 

He met her eye with a look of displeasure but lowered himself down to the ground. Sansa smiled at him but he looked away and continued to survey the surroundings. Arya, Jeyne, and Willard were debating how to lay out the food so Sansa said quietly, "We're in the middle of a field. We'll see anyone coming from some distance."

 

"Aye, but we can be seen as well."

 

Sansa's eyes roamed over the fields but she saw nothing to excite alarm. She saw nothing at all, in fact, except for trees and grass.

 

The food was served and Sansa nibbled at her sandwich as Arya asked Willard if he was familiar with the Braavosi style of fencing. Sansa wanted to cringe. It was such an unladylike topic of conversation and who cared about Braavos?

 

"I'm somewhat familiar with it, my lady. I once crossed paths with a sellsword who'd been trained in water dancing."

 

Arya's eyes lit up and she launched into a series of questions. Despite repeated attempts, Jeyne couldn't get a word in edgewise.

 

"You going to Braavos, girl?" Sandor asked over Arya's latest question, sounding bored as could be.

 

Arya looked at him like he'd gone mad. "No."

 

"Then why learn it? Seems like Westerosi killing would be more useful than Braavosi dancing."

 

"It's  _fencing_ , not  _killing_ , and who said anything about learning?"

 

Sandor snorted and Arya frowned at him.

 

  
_Surely he doesn't think she's learning water dancing_ , Sansa thought. She'd noticed Arya didn't have that strange little sword on her belt anymore. It just didn't make sense. Arya had a dancing master, not a fencing master, and the thought of her killing anyone was just absurd.

 

Jeyne, clearly grateful for the opening, said, "Knowing how to dance is always worthwhile. Sansa, do you think the king will hold a feast when he returns from the hunt?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"You should suggest it. After all, he's going to be your good-father one day," Jeyne added with a smile.

 

Sansa looked down demurely but was really hiding her discomfort. She didn't want to think about her impending marriage to Joffrey, and certainly not while trying to enjoy an outing in Sandor's company.

 

Willard laughed and said, "If he holds a feast, we'll all be dining on wild boar."

 

"Wild boar?" Jeyne's eyes sparkled. She plainly didn't know what he meant but was pleased the conversation had turned to feasts, a subject better suited to her knowledge than fencing.

 

"Yes, I've heard tell he's caught the trail of one and means to hunt it."

 

"How terrifying that sounds!" Jeyne giggled.

 

"How long do you think it will take King Robert to kill it?" Sansa asked, hopeful of an answer suggesting a long period of time.

 

Willard shrugged. "That depends on how long it takes him to find it, my lady. I imagine they could be back the day after next, if he's quick about it." He seemed to remember Sandor's presence and added, "I mean, if the boar hasn't traveled too far, that is."

 

"Can water dancing be used in a hunt?" Arya asked Willard.

 

With an exasperated huff, Jeyne cut in. "Arya, why don't you share with Willard your knowledge of horses? You have such an affinity with them."

 

Arya's mouth fell open, a look of pained disbelief crossing her face. Sansa knew Jeyne was put out at having to share Willard's attention but she was disappointed in her friend and eager to smooth over her hurtful comment. "An affinity  _for_  them, I think you mean, Jeyne. But you're right. Arya is a good rider. She's much more comfortable in a saddle than I am."

 

Arya closed her mouth and looked at Sansa with a trace of gratitude. Jeyne pouted.

 

"You have a fine mount," Willard commented to Sandor, oblivious to any undercurrent.

 

"Aye."

 

"Which farrier do you use?"

 

"The king's," Sandor said flatly.

 

Willard looked embarrassed. "Of course." 

 

"I see you got your billet strap fixed. Mind if I take a look?"

 

Willard rose hastily. "Not at all. Will you excuse us for a moment, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, Lady Jeyne?"

 

They all assented and Sandor asked Willard which saddler he used as they walked over to where the horses were tethered.

 

Jeyne mumbled an apology to Arya, who accepted it by popping some more roast beef into her mouth. Sansa caught the words "gold cloaks" drifting over from where Sandor and Willard stood. She turned in their direction and saw them talking but neither were looking at the horse or his saddle. Sansa remembered telling Sandor that Willard had told Jeyne some of them were fighting but that was several days ago now. She'd completely forgotten about it. Why would they be talking about that now? 

 

After a couple of minutes, they returned.

 

"I'm afraid we've neglected the ladies," Willard said with a smile at Jeyne as he sank back down onto the blanket.

 

Sandor's eyes roved over the three girls and stopped on Sansa. He wasn't smiling, but that wasn't unusual.

 

"Not at all," Sansa assured him.

 

"No, this has been an enjoyable afternoon," added Jeyne, her spirits reviving a little at Willard's smile.

 

"What's for dessert?" Arya asked, opening the basket of food. "Here, Sansa," she said, handing over a partially untied cloth containing several lemon cakes.

 

Sansa smiled and took one before handing the parcel to Sandor. He met her eye and she felt heat seep under her cheeks.

 

"The walnut bread is for Willard," Jeyne declared.

 

"My favorite," he said, accepting it from Arya but smiling at Jeyne who bloomed in response. Arya looked away and rolled her eyes before taking the lemon cakes Sandor offered her.

 

The five ate in a satisfied silence for a few moments and lingered awhile longer before packing up and returning to the castle.

 

*

 

After parting from Arya, Jeyne, and Willard at the stables, Sansa and Sandor made their way back to the Tower of the Hand.

 

"Do you think King Robert will find that boar?"

 

"There's not much he'd let stop him."

 

Sansa caught a note of respect in his voice. "You admire him."

 

"In some ways.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“He fought for the woman he loved. He thought Rhaegar wronged him and he fought back."

 

"But in other ways?"

 

Sandor looked around. "He lacks control. He's taken on too much. Cersei. The kingdom. He should've found another rebellion."

 

Sansa considered that. "Maybe he's never found another love worthy of it."

 

Sandor snorted. "He finds love whenever he wants it."

 

Sansa didn't want to think on that too much. She also didn't want to implicate herself in eavesdropping but she couldn't imagine why he and Willard would have been discussing the gold cloaks. "Did you enjoy the afternoon?"

 

"Parts of it."

 

"Willard is pleasant."

 

"Lady Jeyne seems to think so."

 

Sansa wasn't getting anywhere. She had to focus the conversation. "Do men-at-arms like him often associate with the gold cloaks?"

 

Sandor's eyes cut over to hers. "Heard that, did you?"

 

"I wasn't listening. I couldn't help but hear."

 

"No, you wouldn't listen." Sandor exhaled before continuing quietly. "Willard seems to think the gold cloaks were fighting over gold."

 

"Why?"

 

"What's to argue about unless it's changing hands and not ending up in theirs?"

 

Sansa had no ideas about that. She and Sandor fell silent as they moved through the crowded courtyard.

 

Once they reached her door, Sandor glanced up and down the hallway before quietly rumbling, "We'll have to be more careful."

 

Sansa didn't like what that seemed to imply though she'd not forgotten Arya's unexpected arrival in the godswood that morning. Her heart beat faster just thinking about it. "We have been."

 

He pressed his lips into a thin line.

 

  
_Is he saying . . ._  She had to know before her heart broke. After making sure the hall was empty, she blurted out in a strangled whisper, "I still want to . . ."

 

"So do I but -"

 

"But what?"

 

"You're not the only little bird in the Red Keep."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa knew he was right, but a part of her rebelled against the idea of seeing any less of him. Impulsively, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him quickly. When he kissed her back, she was satisfied.

 

She was less than satisfied when she did not see Sandor again for the rest of that night. Feeling shunned, and irritated for being shunned, Sansa had a bath drawn and soaked longer than was her custom. Her lower back and ankles hurt and the warm water soothed them. She thought over the moves and tactics Sandor had shown her in the godswood but, in a fit of crankiness, thought,  _Why should I learn all of this if he's just going to leave me alone?_ An annoyingly accurate voice responded,  _He showed you all this so you would be safer when he's not around to protect you. Because he cares._  Sansa stuck out her lower lip. Being so unkind was not like her and she knew such thoughts did her no credit. Before the frustration could drive her to tears, she finished her bath and went to bed.

 

The next morning Sansa awoke feeling rested and hopeful. If Sandor thought they should be more careful, then they had been, spending the previous evening apart. Surely he'd be along soon to escort her to the dining hall. Sansa dressed carefully in a gown of light yellow and asked Lucy to leave her hair down. When Sandor didn't show, she told Lucy she'd changed her mind and had her hair pinned up. When Sandor still didn't show, Sansa left for the dining hall by herself under a cloud of grouchiness. She broke her fast with Septa Mordane and then walked the battlements, looking in on the training yard. Sandor was nowhere to be seen and Sansa chided herself for chasing after him, though her desire to find him did not waver.

 

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Sansa's frustration increased. Was he avoiding her? If so, he was doing a thorough job of it. Shouldn't she have a say in the frequency of their interactions? She felt certain she should. That settled it. She would just go to his room. He'd have to return there eventually. If he wasn't there now, she would wait for him. They would talk and settle on a solution together. After all, he'd said they should be  _more_  careful, not that they shouldn't see each other at all. He'd said he wanted to continue . . . whatever it was they'd started. 

 

Before she could lose her nerve, she set off . . . and encountered a veritable parade running through the castle. Servants, men-at-arms, Stark retainers, washerwomen, lords, ladies, a few knights, septas, groomsmen, endless children. She changed her route so often she was sure people would think she was walking in circles. Just when Sansa thought she'd finally come across an empty hallway, she rounded a corner and found Lord Varys walking toward her, silent in silk slippers.

 

"Lady Sansa," he said, bowing his head.

 

"Lord Varys, how pleasant to see you," she choked out.

 

He smiled softly. "May I be of assistance? Unless I'm much mistaken, you're not usually to be found in this part of the castle."

 

"You're quite right." A lie leapt from her tongue. "I'm looking for my sister. Arya. She is . . . she enjoys exploring." Sansa was going to supply more erroneous information but didn't want to get further entangled.

 

"The natural curiosity of children is a joy to them and a concern for everyone else, is that not so? I'm sure she'll turn up. Doubtless,  _someone_  has seen her," he tittered.

 

The hair on the back of Sansa's neck stood up.  "I'm sure you're right, my lord." At fifteen, Arya wasn't much of a child but she was certain Lord Varys would know her sister's age.

 

She parted from the eunuch and considered for a long moment returning to her room. She'd gotten this far, though. Besides, if she could just get to Sandor's room, she'd be safe. She didn't want to be noticed in that part of the castle but the true danger was in being seen entering or exiting.

 

After the better part of an hour, Sansa finally tip-toed down the hall leading to Sandor's room. The dog was in front of the door and scampered toward her, woofing happily, scaring Sansa half to death. She ruffled the dog's ears and shushed him before quickly knocking on the door and ducking inside. Sandor wasn't there and a part of her was relieved. She felt she needed a moment to collect herself. Sansa took a deep breath and turned to face the door, as though Sandor would walk through it at any moment. Before long, she started to pace. Then she sat at the table, folding her hands in her lap and sitting up straight as though she'd come to pay a call on another lady. No unusual weather was to be observed through the window, which Sansa stayed far from, not wanting to be seen. She let her gaze travel around the room but nothing new or particularly interesting was to be seen. Sansa rose and took a passing look at the spare pieces of armor resting on the rack and a long look at the drawing of Sandor's sister. She peered at the face of Alynor Clegane and wondered what had happened to her. There was so much Sansa wanted to ask about her and the rest of Sandor's family but she would not reopen those wounds. 

 

Growing restless, she walked the perimeter of the room, noting the austere furnishings and decor. Sansa paused in front of the mirror and considered her reflection. Truth be told, she looked a little worried. Her cheeks were blotchy and she thought to dab her face with water but the cloth next to the basin was dry and stiff. Her brows drew together at that. For lack of anything else to do, she sat on Sandor's bed. When was he coming back?  _Was_ he coming back? If not, where did he go? It would look suspicious if she didn't appear for the evening meal . . . Feeling like she'd been waiting forever, Sansa slipped off her shoes and put her feet under the blankets. There was a book on his nightstand, a historical account of some battles she'd never heard of. She thumbed through it but her attention was scattered and the subject matter didn't interest her. After sitting stiffly for awhile, Sansa lay down, pressing her cheek into Sandor's pillow, trying to catch the scent of him. 

 

She couldn't help but remember being carried to this bed by Sandor and kissing him, sucking on his skin until she'd left a mark. Her favor, he'd called it, and she smiled at the recollection. Even the stone bench on her balcony had been made comfortable with him there beneath her, the wind like silk on her skin. Gods, she missed him.  _When is he coming back??_  Suddenly a conversation she'd overheard years ago rushed forward in her memory. She'd heard Theon, her father's ward, telling her brother Robb that he'd gone to meet a girl and, when he'd arrived, she was already undressed and lounging across the bed. He seemed to really like it, if it was the truth, and Sansa wondered if Sandor would enjoy such a surprise. She could not be so bold but she imagined slipping out of her dress and waiting under his covers in just her smallclothes. The idea excited her but she didn't want to be the kind of girl that Theon would like and she had no idea at all as to the kind of girl Sandor preferred. He seemed to like  _her_ well enough but his experience with high-born girls must be limited. Sansa did not want to think about the low-born girls Sandor had known before  . . . and would return to after. Their knowledge of . . . certain things must surely be more worldly than her own.

 

To avoid a complete erosion of confidence, Sansa recited songs to herself, testing her memory. She was just starting to feel drowsy when she heard the dog yip in the hallway, followed by a low rumble that could only be Sandor's voice. She sat up quickly and tried to throw the blankets back but they caught on her feet and she scrambled to stand, or at least get into a sitting position that would not belie the fact that she'd made herself quite at home after intruding on his privacy.

 

The door opened and Sandor walked in, turning toward the rack of equipment before spinning around, violence etched deep on his face, his sword halfway out of its scabbard, before he froze in recognition, a brief look of desire replaced instantly by confusion and then anger. He stalked over to her and grabbed her arm.

 

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

 

"I - "

 

"I said we couldn't meet here, it's too dangerous. So I'll ask you again, what are you doing here?" He gave her arm a shake, though not a hard one.

 

"I - I wanted to see you." It sounded pathetic and Sansa could've cried. This was not the reaction she was hoping for at all. Thank the  _gods_  she'd not waited in a state of undress.

 

"And what if I'd not come back to my room alone? What then, girl?"

 

Sansa drew back. "Who would you have come back with?"

 

"Can you name someone who wouldn't think it strange to find Sansa Stark in the Hound's room, in his  _bed_ , no less? Aye, that tale would make its way through the castle quickly enough. I'd be spinning from a rope before dusk." He dropped her arm and walked away, unstrapping his vambraces as he went. 

 

Sansa was in misery. He was right, of course. How had she been so foolish not to think of that? 

 

"We're lucky it was just your sister yesterday," he muttered.

 

"I know," Sansa said quietly.

 

Sandor put his vambraces and light armor on the rack and walked back toward her, his scabbard lightly thumping against his hip. He stopped and stared down at her for a long moment before he began to unbuckle his sword belt, pulling the leather strap tight across his hips before releasing it. He lay the scabbard at the foot of the bed and sat down next to Sansa, his hair, black as a raven's wing, gently swinging forward over his shoulders. He exhaled deeply. "What did you want to see me about?"

 

Sansa hesitated but, remembering how difficult it had been for her to reach Sandor's room undetected, she knew she had to take her chance. "I missed you."

 

Sandor's eyes softened and he pulled her close, lowering his lips to hers and kissing her, softly at first but deeper soon thereafter, his tongue seeking entry to her mouth. Sansa laid a hand on his cheek as his tongue encircled hers. After a moment, Sandor pulled away and asked, "What else? You didn't come here just to tell me that."

 

"I -" Sansa didn't want to sound like she was complaining. "I just thought we should decide together how much time we spend in each other's company."

 

"How much time?"

 

"You said last night we should be more careful."

 

"We should be."

 

"When I didn't see you, I thought you meant to see less of me."

 

"I want to see all of you, little bird, but -"

 

Tap, tap, tap! Someone knocked on the door.

 

"Fuck," Sandor muttered, his hand instinctively flinching toward his sword. "We have to get rid of them," he said under his breath. "Moan but don't say any words."

 

  
_Moan?_ Sansa wasn't sure what he meant. Sandor looked at her pointedly and gave a low, deep moan of satisfaction.

 

Sansa blushed furiously, his intention now clear. She tried to moan but it came out more like a whimper. Sandor fixed her with a look of incredulous disbelief. "Like you  _might_ be enjoying it." 

 

Embarrassment was burning her alive but she tried again, Sandor covering her voice with an intense, throaty, " _Yes,_ " followed by a loud groan. Sansa felt immensely stupid. She'd heard, though not literally, of course, that lovers sometimes voiced their passion but she could not imagine such an impulse. Surely such theatrics were just that.

 

There was a pause, everyone on both sides of the door listening intently. Sansa could feel the person's presence and Sandor seemed to as well. He leaned over to yank his boots off his feet and growled as he stood and ripped his tunic over his head.

 

"Oh," Sansa said softly, taking in the broad expanse of his heavily muscled shoulders. Muscles seemed to be piled on top of muscles. Her eye slid down the valley in the middle of his back that lead to a tapered waist, where the muscles curved forward over his hips. Her breath caught in her throat when he turned and she saw the indentations along which her thumbs had traveled that night on her balcony. His abdomen was rippled like rows of river rock, hard and smooth. Dark hair showed on his forearms and across his chest, trailing down in a narrow strip beneath the waist of his breeches. Her fingertips longed to trace their way along the soft hair between the solid plates of his chest and down over his stomach. Her eyes felt their way back up the musculature of Sandor's torso and she saw her mark had faded to a dark yellow near the base of his neck. Sansa became aware her mouth was hanging open. Gods, she wanted to touch him so badly, to mold her palms to his muscles and feel all the strength and power that lay within. Sandor sat next to her again and leaned close, his cheek practically grazing hers. Then he reached past her and pushed against the headboard, rocking his weight in time, causing the headboard to bang against the wall. Sansa frowned in confusion. Was this supposed to scare off the caller? He leaned back and nipped at her earlobe in passing.

 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

 

"Bugger off!" he yelled, causing Sansa to jump. " _Moan again_ ," he urged. " _Do it faster._ "

 

Sansa tried to obey but she must not have been doing a very good job because Sandor was growling over her. He stood and began undoing the laces of his breeches. Sansa stared, her heart in her throat. What was he doing? He grabbed the sides of his breeches and gave them a shake, causing them to sink lower on his hips.  _Gods be good_  . . . He was spectacular and Sansa wanted to see more of him but she was also afraid. She had no experience, no  _ideas_  even, and if he was soon going to be naked, wouldn't it follow . . .

 

  
_"More_ ," he said quietly.

Sansa, lips pressed together in panic, made a keening noise that caused Sandor flick his eyes to her with interest.

 

"Hound!" More banging. "It's Harry!"

 

"I said, bugger  _off_!"' Sandor turned back to Sansa. "Get under the blankets," he whispered. "Make sure you're covered."

 

Sansa got in the bed and pulled the covers around her but she watched as Sandor crossed to the basin and wet his hands. He ran his palms over his face, chest, and arms, pausing to scratch some red lines on his shoulders before he turned back to look at Sansa, who threw a blanket over her head and burrowed deep into the covers, leaving a tunnel through which to see the door.

 

Sandor gave an almighty grunt as he drove his fingers into his hair and shook it until it was disheveled. Sandor turned to make sure she was properly hidden and then stomped over to the door, clutching the front of his breeches as though he'd just thrown them on. He all but flung the door off its hinges. "This had better be good, boy."

 

"I'm sorry, Hound." Harry goggled toward the bed and Sansa sunk beneath the blankets, praying he could not somehow discern it was she beneath the bedding.

 

"Out with it and then  _go_."

 

Harry dragged his eyes away from the bed and they widened as they fell on what had to be the deadly look on Sandor's face. Harry's cheeks reddened steadily as he seemed to realize what he'd interrupted.

 

"You're . . . you're wanted. The queen has returned."


	11. Chapter 11

" _What?_ She's returned already?" Sandor leaned back in surprise.

 

 

"Not yet. She'll be back tomorrow. She sent word ahead that you're to report to her when she arrives."

 

 

Sandor nodded. "Tell her page I will."

 

 

Harry's eyes dropped to the bed again and Sansa tried to sink more deeply into the mattress. Harry began to sputter, "I'm sor-" but Sandor slammed the door in his face and turned back to the bed. He'd let go of his breeches and they'd slipped down a little lower, revealing a thickening of the hair low on his abdomen. He seemed to feel it and grabbed the front of his breeches, yanking them higher before hastily doing up the laces. Sansa emerged from the bedding, her throat constricted. She watched wide-eyed as Sandor sat on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his hair with an air of absolute exhaustion. After a moment, he turned and looked at her, seeming to debate something.

 

 

"What will we do?" she asked.

 

 

Something in Sandor's eyes faded. He looked away. "Nothing."

 

 

He stood and moved to his table. He removed fresh cloths from the drawer, poured some water into the basin, and began to wash up. Sansa stared at his back, the muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin, and felt numb. After several minutes, Sandor looked at her in the mirror. "You might want to turn around for this part, girl."

 

 

"Oh." Sansa shook her head to clear the gloom.

 

 

"Or maybe you don't," he added with a tone suggesting he was waiting for her to decide.

 

 

Sansa blushed and turned to face the wall. She heard the water slosh and drip as he wet and wrung out his washcloth, the soft sounds of scrubbing following. He rattled around in his wardrobe and Sansa guessed he was getting fresh breeches. She was tempted to steal a look over her shoulder but refrained, afraid of getting caught.

 

 

"Alright, girl. I think I've saved enough of your innocence now."

 

 

Sansa turned around as he leaned forward and poured water over his head, splashing it everywhere.

 

 

"I can help." She didn't think he'd heard. He flinched when her fingers brushed against his as they both reached for the glass bottle holding his shampoo. "I used to help my brother Rickon bathe. Sometimes he'd get in moods where he wouldn't let any of the maids near him."

 

 

Sandor turned his head slightly to look at her, his soaked hair falling onto his shoulder. Sansa thought he'd say something but he just turned and held his head over the basin again. Sansa poured a little of the shampoo into her palms and rubbed them together before sinking her fingers into his hair and working up a lather. The scent of his clean skin and the shampoo was wonderfully masculine and Sansa breathed it in. It was nearly the smell she'd come to associate with him, though it was missing a deeper, earthier scent that seemed to be more than skin deep. She rubbed his scalp, letting her nails gently scratch his skin. As she did so, Sandor rested a little more heavily on his forearms and let out a quiet breath. Sansa picked up the pitcher and carefully rinsed his hair clean. She picked up a cloth and she draped it over his head, blotting the water from his hair. He took over then, standing and rubbing his hair more vigorously, drips of water leaving shiny trails on his naked chest. Sansa noticed with a start the bulge in the front of his breeches, though he didn't seem to be paying it any mind.

 

 

"I can brush your hair out for you, if you like."

 

 

He looked sad. "No, little bird, you've done plenty. My thanks."

 

 

Sansa looked down, flustered by his refusal, and returned to sit on the edge of his bed as he ran a comb through his long hair and squeezed the cloth down the length of it to press out the excess water. Then he moved to his wardrobe and pulled out a tunic. As he was pulling his arms into the sleeves and was about to raise it over his head, his chest was even more massive, his waist even narrower than usual. Sansa tried not to stare as she gathered her thoughts. "I'm sorry my coming here upset you."

 

 

The briefest look of frustration crossed his face. He joined her on the bed and leaned in for a kiss, the wet ends of his hair leaving two dark spots on Sansa's gown. Sandor gave a kind of groan when he saw them and stood, pulling Sansa up with him. "I'd keep you here if I could but I can't and now that Cersei's coming back, more of her people will be in the castle again."

 

Sansa nodded.

 

 

"I said last night we'd have to be more careful but the queen's return changes all that. At least one of her pages is back and her ladies probably aren't far behind. She's summoned her dog," he spat out, "so she must want something."

 

 

"What do you think she wants?"

 

 

A dark looked crossed over his face. "I'll find out tomorrow."

 

 

They contemplated that for a moment before Sandor stood. "Come. You'll need to get ready for the evening meal."

 

 

Sansa stood reluctantly. The past five days had been wonderful and she hated for it to end. She missed her father, Jory, and others of their household but she didn't miss Joffrey a bit and wasn't looking forward to King Robert's booming gregariousness disturbing the peace and quiet the castle had enjoyed of late. More than that, though, she feared the queen. During Sevenmas, she'd been short with Sansa and seemingly angry with the king. Prior, she'd given the order to have Lady killed. Sansa had once admired and hoped to emulate the beautiful, golden Queen Cersei but now she feared being under the queen's influence without her father or even King Robert to gainsay her; feared it even more since Sandor was hers in truth, according to Joffrey, and could not intercede on her behalf.

 

 

"When do you think the hunting party will return?" She couldn't hide the nervousness in her voice.

 

 

"Not until Robert has killed the boar."

 

 

Sansa fell silent though a multitude of emotions tumbled around inside her. Sandor put two fingers under her chin and tilted her face up. "What's the matter, little bird?"

 

 

Sansa didn't know where to start. She blurted out, "I don't want them to come back. The king and queen, I mean. And Joffrey. Especially not him. Just my father and his men."

 

 

Sandor smirked. "You like having the castle all to yourself, do you?"

 

 

_I like having_ you _all to myself and wish we didn't have to hide,_ she thought, though she lacked the boldness to say the words aloud.

 

 

He narrowed his eyes. "Or is it something else?"

 

 

Sansa held his gaze. "It's something else."

 

 

Sandor _hmm_ ed at that but said no more.

 

 

*

 

Sansa dined with Arya, Septa Mordane, and Jeyne, forcing herself to contribute to the conversation which, unfortunately, kept returning to the hunt. Sansa's eyes flicked over Septa Mordane's shoulders to Sandor so often that the septa turned around to see what drew her notice. Sansa looked down when her septa found the object of her attention and chided herself for being so obvious.

 

 

"Not to worry, my dear," Septa Mordane said conspiratorially, leaning forward with a look of certainty. "You'll be well shot of him very soon." With half a look over her shoulder, she murmured under her breath, "Great hulking brute."

 

 

Sansa's heart clenched and she hoped to the gods Sandor had not overheard her septa's unkind words. The instant it was acceptable to do so, Sansa rose from the table, Sandor mirroring her movement several feet away. Jeyne was blathering on happily about Willard but Sansa was in no humor to pay attention. She felt exhausted and wished her friend would stop being so effusive about her perfectly acceptable suitor. Sansa wrestled with her mood and walked faster as Jeyne took her arm to better confide whatever it was she was sharing. Septa Mordane and Arya followed, the one lecturing, the other's head on a constant swivel. Sandor brought up the rear.

 

 

"Move that slop out of the way, girl," Sandor barked to a maid mopping the floor near the exit to the courtyard. _What’s gotten into him?_ Sansa wondered as the terrified girl hastened to comply, dragging her bucket out of the way of the approaching party, her eyes wide.

 

 

They made their way into the courtyard and had only taken a few steps when Sandor bellowed, "Watch what you're bloody doing!" making Sansa jump as Jeyne gasped and clutched at her arm. The man-at-arms to whom the command was directed turned with a look of annoyance which he reined in when he realized he was being addressed by Sandor.

 

 

Silence fell over the courtyard. "This girl's to be your queen one day and you’re flinging mud and shit all over the place." Sansa could practically feel the heat coming off of Sandor's words though she couldn't assign a reason to his anger. She'd barely noticed the man before Sandor called him out.

 

 

The man-at-arms could not do other than apologize, which he did with a bow. "I beg your forgiveness, Lady Stark."

 

 

"Of course, my lord. I bid you good evening."

 

 

Her words were acknowledged with a tip of his head but he glared resentfully at Sandor behind her. She turned to see what would happen but Sandor flicked his hand to gesture that the group should continue on and he brushed past the man without a second look.

 

 

Sandor seemed to calm down as they left everyone at their respective rooms, and then they were finally, _finally_ , free to make their way to her room alone. She reached for his arm on the stairs but then stopped herself. That kind of thing should come to an end tomorrow . . . but tomorrow wasn't here yet so Sansa curled her fingers around his bicep and ascended the stairs.

 

 

Sandor stood to the side of her door and waited for her to enter her room. The sight of him standing there nearly broke her heart. _So that's it, then?_ She couldn't just close the door on him and their time together.

 

 

"Will you tell me what Queen Cersei wants after you see her tomorrow?" she mumbled miserably to the floor.

 

 

"If I can," Sandor answered under his breath.

 

 

Sansa nodded and reached for the door, looking up at him one last time before going in. He was facing the opposite wall but was looking at her from the corner of his eye. His jaw was clenched, his neck tight, the corner of his mouth twitching.

 

 

"Good night, Sandor," she whispered.

 

 

"Good night, little bird," he rasped in return.

 

 

As soon as Sansa shut her door, she heard his heavy footsteps moving quickly for the stairs.

 

 

*

 

 

The evening had been a waste. Sansa sat for a time with her sewing in her lap but made not a stitch. When she could take it no longer, she crawled into bed and sobbed her frustration into her pillow. She knew she couldn't have Sandor but she also knew she could no longer accept Joffrey. The thought of it was just too vile. She'd ask her father to break the betrothal and . . . send her back to Winterfell, she guessed. The thought of leaving Sandor broke her heart but, after being in his arms, showing anything but revulsion in Joffrey's would be impossible. _That_ she decided early in the evening. Losing her chance to be queen bothered her, for no queen would work harder for her people, but it seemed necessary. That and losing Sandor's company were the bitterest truths to accept but she could see no way around it. Her father was no more likely to accept Sandor into his service than Queen Cersei was to release him from hers. And Sandor himself had never expressed any interest in leaving King's Landing. Maybe, in a year or so, once things had calmed down, she could invite Myrcella, who she truly liked, to visit Winterfell and Sandor could come with her . . . though that seemed as unlikely as all of her other ideas. She hoped, she fervently hoped, that her father's friendship with King Robert would not be damaged by her decision. _Why did I intervene before Sevenmas?_ She rued her poor decision only until she realized, without it, she would never have come to know Sandor as she did now. She'd succeeded in gaining him a reprieve from being in Joffrey's service and had, in the process, developed feelings for him that went far beyond general concern for his happiness. Sansa considered every option she could think of to remain in Sandor's company while also freeing herself from Joffrey but no solution presented itself. Extricating herself from her betrothal to Joffrey was necessary. That was the only definite.

 

 

Frustrated with her lack of ingenuity, Sansa began to linger over memories of the past several days. She very nearly regretted wasting her time with worry and wished, instead, that she'd spent more time kissing and exploring Sandor and letting him kiss and explore her. She shuddered when she thought of her dream, of Sandor as a column of blood, but maybe the pain would be worth it. She felt sure he would be gentle with her. Not that it mattered. Even away from Joffrey, she still had to keep her maidenhead. _Why am I so afraid when I'm with him and so curious when we're apart?_ Sansa huffed and turned over, the coolness of the pillowcase soothing against her heated cheek. Sometime during the repetition of the memories of their time together, Sansa fell asleep.

 

 

Then suddenly she was awake. As she turned to see what had awoken her, a hand clapped over her mouth. She drew breath to scream but a voice said, "Shhhh," and Sansa recognized the metal-on-stone rasp. She turned toward Sandor's voice and found herself in his arms.

 

 

"What are you doing here?" she asked in a frantic whisper as she searched for his face. Only the sheerest moonlight was staving off complete darkness, reducing everything in the room to blobs of varying shades of black.

 

 

"Sansa . . ."

 

 

The sound of her name sent a tingle down her spine.

 

 

"When I came to your room you said -"

 

 

"I'd rather hang for something I did, little bird."

 

 

Sansa could smell wine on his breath. _Is he in his cups? What does he want here?_ For lack of a better response, she said, "I don't want you to hang."

 

 

He gave a soft chuckle and pulled her closer.

 

 

Sansa was struggling to make sense of his appearance in her bed chamber in the dead of night.She didn't know what to say or do. She wasn't even sure if she was truly awake.

 

 

"Sansa . . ." His voice, usually so rough, had the appealing bristle of a cat's tongue when whispering in the dark. She felt his nose against her cheek before he found her lips and kissed her. Long moments later, she pulled away and began to shove off the blankets.

 

 

"Little bird?" he asked warily.

 

 

"I . . . a moment, please." Sansa quickly made her way into her dressing room and, needing something to do, brushed her teeth, her mind in a spin the entire time. This was dangerous and she should send him away. _You're not sending him anywhere so why fight it? But . . . what if . . . ? What if you're never alone with him again? Would you regret it?_ She rinsed out her mouth. The sense of inevitability was overwhelming. Sansa looked at her shadowy form in the mirror and was glad to be obscured.She was a good girl and knew better, knew what she was about to do was wrong in the eyes of so many, but what she didn't know, Sandor could teach her and she wanted to learn.

 

Sansa went back into her bedroom and saw him sitting on her bed, a black mass in front of the gray lumps of the furniture closer to the balcony doors. She approached and crawled across the bed until she was next to him. He felt for her hand and held it. She knelt and kissed him, his relief evident in the rush of his exhale and the speed with which his arms encircled her waist. They kissed hungrily until Sandor murmured, "Lay down."

 

 

Sansa did, though breathing was suddenly more difficult. Sandor pulled off his boots and rolled onto his side, moving closer until he was over her, his knees on the outside of her legs. Reasons to stop fluttered around in Sansa's mind but she tried not to be bothered by them and instead gave herself over to the feel of his hands in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, and his body pressing against hers. “Sansa . . .,” he repeated between breaths and small, content noises that made her feel like the brightest star in the heavens.

 

Shyly at first, Sansa’s hands roamed over him, taking in the contours of the muscles in his arms and the breadth of his shoulders. Sandor was keeping his weight on his forearms so she placed her palms on his chest and felt the hard muscle beneath his tunic. She turned her wrists and slid her hands, fingertips-first, down to his stomach, took hold of the edge of his tunic, and pulled it up until she could touch the warm, supple muscle of his abdomen. Sandor _mmmm_ ed and lowered his body onto hers for a moment. Sansa giggled, giddy and scared and thrilled; Sandor’s responding chuckle making her break into a grin. Feeling braver, she laid her hands on his bared waist and slid them up, slowly, over his back, marveling at the feel of him, until she could grip his shoulders. Sandor's breath was in her ear and he gave quiet moan. Then Sansa drew her nails down the length of his back, and he arched toward her, his hips pressing into hers as he muttered a husky, " _Gods_ , little bird."

 

Sansa laughed. Her fingertips just grazed his skin as they traveled back up toward Sandor's neck and he twitched under her touch until she pressed her hands firmly against his skin and slid them back down to his waist before squeezing his sides. Sandor pushed up on his hands and knelt as he pulled his tunic over his head and cast it aside. She could hear his uneven breathing and her smile broadened. She laid her hands on his stomach, her fingertips undulating as they worked their way over the muscles. Sandor all but fell on her then, his mouth taking her own breath from her until she raked her nails over his back again. Then his head lolled onto her shoulder and she barely heard his broken, "Aye."

 

 

Something about having his back scratched seemed to invigorate him. He sucked on the side of her neck as she gripped his triceps, one of his hands frantically kneading the side of her hip. He moved lower and kissed the tops of her breasts. "Sansa . . .?"

 

 

"Mm?" His every word and touch were bringing her alive even as some kind of agreeable fog lulled her.

 

 

"Let me undress you."

 

 

A moment passed before Sansa's heart started beating again. She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her. Somehow he understood and moved back, helping her into a sitting position. He reached under the hem of her nightgown and slid his hands along the sides of her legs, bunching up the fabric as he went, until he could grasp her hips. Sansa raised them and Sandor grabbed handfuls of the fabric, Sansa helping him to pull it over her head. Once free of the garment, she leaned back on her hands, naked except for her smallclothes. She was grateful she'd not given up on her campaign of wearing her prettiest underthings, even if Sandor couldn't see them.

 

 

As if he could hear her thoughts, blunt fingertips suddenly bumped against her belly and dipped inside the edge of her smallclothes, his thumbs running along the outside, feeling for trim. "Hmm.” His fingers moved along until they found the ribbons on the sides that tied to keep her smallclothes secure. Sansa remained still as he pinched the knots. She knew when he realized what they were because he blew out a breath and muttered what sounded like, "Seven hells," before removing his hands from her.

 

 

A moment later a heavy hand rested on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze before it slid down to cup her breast, his thumb running over her nipple. He made an appreciative noise before taking her in his arms and guiding her onto her back. The heat of his body, naked from the waist up, nearly took her breath away. She'd never felt anything like it and moaned softly in response. Her breasts against the solid wall of his chest felt wonderful and she pressed up against him. He pressed back and then moved lower, making space for himself between her legs as he trailed kisses over her chest and guided one of her breasts toward his mouth. Sansa sighed happily when he began sucking on the firm bud his thumb had made of her nipple, the pleasure of it warming her. Sandor took his time, seeming to savor her, alternating between gently licking and sucking on her nipple and kneading her flesh with his calloused fingertips. Then he lavished the same attention on her other breast.

 

 

Somewhere through the haze of pleasure, Sansa realized she wasn't reciprocating. He was planting kisses between her breasts, pressing the flesh against his face in rhythmic circles before his lips made their way down her belly.

 

 

"Tell me what to do," she pleaded quietly.

 

 

"What?" He sounded distracted and she could feel rather than see him looking up at her.

 

 

"Tell me what to do  . . .," Sansa didn't know why she was embarrassed but she was, “. . . to please you." Her voice was barely loud enough to be heard.

 

 

After a pause he said, "Get on top of me."

 

 

Her nerves shook her but he was already moving off of her and rolling onto his back. Sansa made to lie on top of him but he caught hold of her knees and guided them to his sides, bringing her into a straddle. The impropriety of the pose warred with Sansa's desire to let him teach her. His manhood was directly beneath her and she tried to refrain from resting her weight on it. Sandor gripped her hips and whispered, "Relax, little bird," the pressure of his hands obliging her to rest against him. Her hands were on his chest.

 

 

"Tell me what you like."

 

 

"What I like? I like your hair. Your lips and teats. Your cunt on my cock." He pressed his hips upward. "Your nails down my back."

 

 

That last bit was helpful but not much else and Sansa felt at a loss. She couldn't just scratch his back into ribbons. "What else? What would you like me to do?"

 

 

He laughed under his breath and Sansa felt foolish. He took her wrists and brought her hands to her breasts. Then he covered her hands with his and squeezed. "Tip your head back." She did, the high ceiling above nothing but darkness. "Bugger me, I wish I could see you right now." Then he laughed again.

 

 

Sansa shook off his hands. "You're mocking me."

 

 

"No." She could hear him shaking his head. "This is a mockery of me. To think I could ever have you. Little bird . . . Sansa . . ." He found her wrists and gently pulled her down on top of him. His heavy hands rubbed her back, soothing her. When she relaxed against him, he kissed her gently. "Tell _me_ what to do."

 

 

Sansa opened her mouth to answer but couldn't think of a single thing to say. She'd never before considered what might please her; she'd happily accepted whatever Sandor had given her without thought for more. "I . . . dont know . . ."

 

 

Sandor _hmm_ ed as though something was not quite right about that. He wrapped his arms around her and turned so they were both on their sides. "We'll find out, then."

 

 

"I _have_ to remain a maid," she felt obligated to say, a mixture of force and desperation in her voice.

 

 

"I know," he answered, frustrated. Then, in a softer tone, he added, "I can please you without taking your maiden's gift."

 

 

Sansa began to ask, "How?" but Sandor had moved off the bed and she heard him undoing his belt, followed by the sound of him stepping out of his breeches. The feather mattress dipped under his weight as he returned to her, immediately placing himself between her legs and gathering her in his arms. He took a handful of her hair and gently pulled her head back, sucking on her throat as his hips rocked forward, pressing his stiff manhood against her woman's place, the thin barrier of their smallclothes doing little to subdue the sensation. Sansa's hands gripped his arms. "This . . ."

 

 

"This isn't taking your maidenhead," he answered in a thick voice.

 

 

Sansa knew he was right but he felt so close she was sure he'd entered her at least a little bit. Something like panic began to beat large feathery wings inside her. Her lady mother had explained that lovemaking consisted of the man being inside the woman but where was the line? At what point would she be ruined? Her mother had promised to give her more details when she came to King's Landing for Sansa's wedding but never had Sansa considered that she'd need to know before then.

 

 

Sandor pressed into her again with a groan and then took a long stroke over the length of her. Sansa gasped.

 

"Yes?"

 

Sansa had to let the air back into her lungs before she was able to respond. "Yes," she answered in a strangled voice.

 

Sandor _mmm_ ed and she could hear him smile. He increased his speed slightly and Sansa rested her hands on his lower back and felt his muscles flex. Her hands inched lower and made their way under his smallclothes, the skin smooth over the manly heft of his buttocks. "What are you doing, girl?" Sandor groaned and Sansa giggled. Everything felt so good. He lowered his head to kiss her and she ran her hands over his hips and up his back until she could cup his face and slide her tongue into his mouth. He pressed against her harder and then broke away, falling to her side and panting.

 

"What is it?" Had she done something wrong?

 

"You're killing me."

 

Sansa grinned, glad he couldn't see her. "Not intentionally."

 

"That's what makes you so dangerous."

 

Sansa laughed. "You're the dangerous one."

 

"Not when you're armed with these," he said, edging down the bed and tugging at the ribbon on her smallclothes. He pressed a kiss to her lower belly and dragged a fingertip between her legs. Sansa stiffened and then gasped when his finger dipped inside her smallclothes and retraced its path along her flesh.

 

"You're wet," he said.

 

 

"Is that good?"

 

 

He sighed and rested his head on her thigh. "If you want to fuck, it is." He took her opposite leg and draped it over his shoulder.

 

 

Sansa pressed her lips together. "I wish it was my decision." Having his face so close to her woman's place was distracting her, as was the hand he kept running over her thigh.

 

 

"And if it was? What would you decide tonight?"

 

 

"It's not my decision."

 

 

After a pause he said, "You're too good for him."

 

 

Sansa shrugged.

 

 

"Bloody waste," he muttered, as if to himself. "And he'll only get worse as king. Long live Robert," he added bitterly.

 

 

"I'm going to ask my father to break our betrothal."

 

 

She heard him exhale but he remained silent for a long moment.

 

  
"So you'll be returning to Winterfell, then. When are you going to talk to your father?"

 

 

“I don’t know. Soon. I can't marry him.” _Or you_ , she thought sadly.

 

  
For a time they were each lost in their own thoughts. Sansa was resigning herself to a lack of him when Sandor muttered, "Fuck it," turned his head, pulled her smallclothes off, and licked the length of her womanhood with a hot and heavy tongue. Sansa's jaw fell open, both from the surprise and the sensation. Her body fairly shook with the pleasure radiating out from the small, specific area Sandor was lashing with his tongue. "Tell me you don't want it, little bird." He sucked on her flesh and rolled his tongue in a tight circle over her apex. "Tell me" - he licked her again - "to stop."

 

The loss of contact, even for a moment, devastated her. "No," she gasped, "no, I want it. Please. Don't stop." She watched the dark shape of his head move up and down as his tongue made her feel things with a depth and a pleasure and a hunger she'd never imagined possible. The terrible intimacy of it nearly overwhelmed her and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her womanhood was twitching, jumping, aching, and then, and then she was full, anchored, connected to him twice, once in a way that would launch her, a second in a way that would keep her firmly tethered to him. The solidness of Sandor's fingers answered her desperate clenching with the deepest pleasure she'd ever known while his lapping tongue drove her up and up and up. The undulations rocked her, her head fell back, and her mouth was open, wantonly open, but she didn't care. Never had propriety mattered less. _This_ pleasure and _this_ moment with _this_ man were all. She moaned and Sandor licked her harder. "Gods," she panted. The sensations, nearly unbearable in their perfection, were gathering, centering. Her breasts ached to be touched and Sansa cupped them and squeezed them, pushed them up and together and around, her palms on her aching nipples unable to satisfy the desire for Sandor to suckle them. He seemed to sense her movement and made a muffled groan, the urgency of his mouth increasing. Sansa's flesh was practically vibrating, the waves of pleasure breaking over and over and over again. She tried to hold it off, to slow it down, but the frequency was building and she was going to go over. She grabbed the sheets and, for the smallest moment, there seemed to be a pause - and then a shattering pleasure wracked her as she cried out once, twice, and again. She wanted to scream. No. _Sing_. When the fury died down, she could do no more than gasp and let the residual pangs of pleasure ripple through her as they would.

 

 

Sandor caught his own breath and then crawled over her, covering her open mouth with his wet one. He squeezed one of her breasts, hard, and pressed his groin against her throbbing wetness. The hardness of him and the friction of his smallclothes against her raw skin, so sensitive, made her whimper. He did it again. And again. And kept doing it until the waves of pleasure were again swelling and gathering within her. He was breathing heavily, kissing her roughly, his face pressed against hers, his hot breath in her ear. She bucked her hips up against him and in a choked voice he said, "Little bir-" as Sansa clung to him and broke apart in pleasure again.

 

Sandor fell on his side, " _Please_ ," he said, taking her hand and guiding it toward his groin.

 

"Show me how," Sansa breathed, still in shock from the incredible gift Sandor had bestowed upon her.

 

In an instant, Sandor was out of his smallclothes and wrapping her hand around his warm, slightly sticky yet silky, and _thick_ manhood. Sansa barely had time to absorb the feel of him before he guided her hand up and maneuvered her palm over his head, spreading an oily moisture that Sansa wasn't expecting. Then he moved her wet hand up and over and down, soon settling into a rhythm and groaning long and low. His ragged breaths came faster and he squeezed her hand around him and growled. Sansa was lost but fascinated. Suddenly Sandor grunted loudly and Sansa's knuckles felt a sticky liquid on his belly. He pulled her hand over him a couple more times and then collapsed, breathing hard.

 

Sansa didn't know what to say, speechless in the face of what she'd just experienced. Sandor wiped off his belly with his smallclothes and turned toward her. "Come here."

 

Sansa inched closer and he gathered her against him, curling his body around hers. He rubbed her back and kissed her hair as Sansa breathed in the wonderful, familiar, musky scent of him. She'd never felt so _content_. Drowsy, too.

 

"Sandor?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"What will happen tomorrow?"

 

"I'll keep you safe, little bird."

 

In the cavern of his chest and arms, Sansa couldn't doubt it. His breath was warm on her cheek, his hair hung over her, and her eyes fluttered shut.

 

A time later, her cheek was still warm, but consistently so. The soft waves of Sandor's breaths were gone. Sansa squinted in the sun. _It's morning._ She looked around, confused. _Did I dream it?_ She sat up, realizing after a moment that she wasn't wearing her nightgown. A smile crept across her face and a bone-deep happiness radiated within her. She pulled on her nightgown in case Lucy came in and groped around for her smallclothes. Her smile widened when she realized she couldn't put them on. Sandor had taken one of the ribbons.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa was glowing. She could've sung all day long and not tired of it. As it was, she fairly twirled and danced through the morning, beaming at everyone she met. She didn't see Sandor but she hadn't expected to. She wasn't sure she could contain so much happiness. Seeing him might cause her to flare up and combust like a pyromancer's concoction, filling the heavens with twinkly relics of her joy.

 

She couldn't stop thinking about the previous night - what they'd done, how he'd made her _feel_. It had happened so fast but she'd never felt rushed and she didn't regret it. It had felt right. It had _been_ right. She was surprised she wasn't embarrassed by anything that had happened though she blushed when she thought of one thing: his mouth . . . it had been right _there_! He hadn't seemed to mind, though. In fact, she thought he'd enjoyed doing it. She sighed happily. It had been the most incredible night. And she had - she grinned at the memory - she'd touched him, too, and he'd _liked_ it! She felt again his hand over hers and his manhood, so soft yet so firm, under her palm. She laughed, causing a passing maid to cast a questioning glance at her.

 

It was a clear and sunny day and Sansa meant to soak in the beauty of the gardens where she could privately relish her memories. She was nearly there when a page approached her.

 

"Lady Sansa?"

 

Sansa gave him her most radiant smile. "Good day."

 

"The queen has sent for you."

 

Sansa's smile wavered. It was as though a drenching cold rain had started to fall. "Of course." She followed the boy to the solar where the Sevenmas celebration had been held but there was no festive veneer on the atmosphere now. The page knocked, entered, and announced Sansa's arrival. When Sansa entered the room, she was surprised to find Sandor there.

 

The queen was dressed in a fitted gown of green with a high collar and a scalloped pattern that reminded Sansa of scales. She was sipping a deep red wine. "Thank you. You may go," she said to the page.

 

"Sansa." Cersei gave her a penetrating look and Sansa tried not to squirm under her scrutiny.

 

"Your grace." Sansa bowed her head.

 

"You look flushed. Are you well?"

 

"Quite well, thank you."

 

"Good, then you won't mind if we spend a few moments catching up." Queen Cersei's lips stretched into a thin smile.

 

Sansa steadied herself. "Of course not, your grace."

 

"Tell me, Sansa," the queen said quietly, "have you been enjoying yourself while the court has been away?" She swirled the wine in her glass.

 

Sansa strove for a neutral answer. "The castle has been very quiet, your grace."

 

"That is to be expected when most of its inhabitants are away," the queen responded, as though Sansa was a simpleton. "And how have you been spending your time?"

 

"I . . ." Sansa could see no harm in telling her the truth. "I prayed in the sept and the godswood. I visited the library. Lord Tyrion was kind enough to recommend a book to me. I spent some time with my friend Jeyne Poole. I did some sewing and took walks . . ."

 

The queen was looking at her with a mixture of boredom and pity, her glass suspended on its path to her mouth. "What wholesome activities."

 

Sansa stayed quiet.

 

"You'd have me believe you spent all your time with Lord Tyrion and this Jeyne Poole."

 

"Well, no, not Lord Tyrion. I only saw him in the library. I spent most of my time with Jeyne, my sister Arya, and Septa Mordane."

 

Queen Cersei pressed her lips together and leaned slightly forward. "Sansa, I want to talk to you about a folly that has been perpetuated during my absence."

 

Sansa's blood froze in her veins. "A folly, your grace?"

 

"I've been advised that my son's own sworn shield was put in your service for the duration of the king's hunt."

 

Sansa didn't know what to say and wished she could consult with Sandor, who'd been silent. She felt pinned to the spot by Queen Cersei's emerald gaze and fought to keep her expression relaxed. "Yes, your grace," she said quietly when she could no longer endure the silence. "King Robert told me that morning." _Oh, gods, please don't let her know the truth._

 

"The _arrogance_ ," the queen hissed, looking away.

 

Sansa nearly fainted but then realized Cersei was talking about the king and not her.

 

"You failed to mention him in your list of companions."

 

"I . . . we . . . he was _with_ me but . . ."

 

" _With_ you. So you took full advantage of having Sandor Clegane in your service."

 

Flustered, Sansa shook her head and tried not to think of the previous night. She could feel a blush stealing over her cheeks and the more she tried to quell it, the hotter it burned. "No, your grace. I . . . I  . . . he escorted me to the godswood and around the Red Keep but . . . I didn't go to the market or . . . anywhere far from the castle."

 

The queen's regal features set into a firm look. "And why not?"

 

Sansa sensed danger in the question but she wasn't sure from what. "I know . . . the Hound belongs to the prince and . . ."

 

Cersei nodded as though Sansa had finally come to the point. "Sandor told me you required very little of him. I was glad to hear it. You're not as grasping as some girls in your position would be but this ridiculous charade comes to an end today. You'll enjoy use of your own guard when your father provides one for you. You will _not_ avail yourself of the prince's sworn shield any longer."

 

"Yes, your grace." Sansa prayed this would be the end of the interview.

 

"You may go."

 

"Good day, your grace." Sansa turned and kept her eyes on the floor as she walked through the door Sandor opened for her, and shut behind her without exiting himself.

 

Sansa went to the gardens as she'd planned but took no pleasure in them. The joy of the morning had cooled and the walls of the Red Keep made her feel like she was at the bottom of a deep well. She didn't see Sandor the rest of the day. In the evening she played at cards with Arya but couldn't concentrate, which aggravated her sister. She began to feel tired early and, when she realized why, was all the more depressed.

 

*

 

Sansa climbed the stairs alone to her room but, despite being tired, didn't want to go to bed. Not if Sandor wasn't there. With a huff, Sansa threw on her cloak, tied her dagger around her waist, and headed for the roof of Maegor's. She wanted space and air around her since her future was narrowing rapidly. The thought of leaving Sandor and upsetting everyone with her broken betrothal made her jaw tremble. She hurried along as the tears gathered in her eyes.

 

Suddenly a hand reached out of the dark and clutched at her arm. In an instant, she'd whipped her dagger out of its sheath and hacked down on the forearm. A hiss and an oath followed and Sansa turned to flee. She heard quick steps and, before she could begin to run in earnest, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

 

"It's me, girl."

 

Sansa stopped and turned. Sandor got out a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut on his arm.

 

"I'm so sorry!" Sansa was horrified that she'd hurt him.

 

"What for? It's what I trained you to do."

 

"I know but . . .”

 

"But what? You did well."

 

Had Sansa been in a better mood, she would have been pleased by the compliment.

 

"Where are you going, little bird?"

 

"Up to the roof. Will you come with me?"

 

"No, and you shouldn't be wandering around after dark by yourself. Come in here for a minute." He took her elbow and steered her toward the shadows from which he'd emerged. A door she'd never noticed opened into a dimly lit passageway and, after he'd made sure no one was there, he said in a low voice, "You did well with the queen today."

 

"What did she want with you?" Sansa whispered.

 

"Just a report, so far," he muttered back.

 

"Did you tell her about the gold cloaks?"

 

Sandor looked surprised that she'd ask. "Yes. She dismissed it as nothing."

 

For a moment they said nothing.

 

"What happens now?" Sansa asked.

 

Sandor heaved a sigh. "The same thing that's been happening, girl - nothing. Until you talk to your father, anyway."

 

"Do you think the queen will be very angry with me?"

 

"She'll take it as an offense for certain."

 

"Maybe I shouldn't . . ."

 

"After a lifetime with Joffrey you might wish you had. Bugger him, though. Kiss me. I'm on duty and have to get back."

 

Sansa clutched the front of his tunic and pulled herself toward his lips as his arms crushed her against him. His kiss was rough at first but soon became tender and lingering.

 

"I'll be back this way in an hour. I'll stop at the roof before continuing on my rounds, make sure you're safe."

 

Sansa shook her head. "I think I'll return to my room." The tiredness she'd fought earlier was returning and, now that she'd seen Sandor, she didn't feel the same need for escape as she'd felt before.

 

Sandor nodded and moved to open the door. "Good night, little bird." He stooped down and kissed her.

 

Sansa laid a hand on his cheek. "Good night, Sandor."

 

"I'll be a ways behind you until you get to the Tower."

 

"Thank you."

 

Sansa stepped out into the dark and began to retrace the steps back to her room. Had she not been listening for him, she would not have known Sandor was following her. Before she entered the Tower of the Hand, Sansa turned and stared into the darkness at the far end of the courtyard. She could feel the weight of his gaze from the shadows and wondered if her happiness would always have to be hidden.

 

*

 

When Sansa awoke the next morning, there was an unusual amount of bustle in the hallway outside her chamber. Lucy hurried in. "My lady, your father has returned. He's requested you join him in his solar to break your fast as soon as you are ready."

 

"Is something wrong?" She was glad her father had returned but Lucy's manner worried her.

 

The maid wrung her hands. "It's the king. He was wounded on the hunt. The injury sounds most grievous."

 

Sansa gasped and peppered Lucy with questions as she hastily dressed but Lucy had already shared everything she knew about the situation.

 

When Sansa entered the stairwell, she found Lord Baelish descending. He looked handsome in a blue velvet tunic with puffed sleeves and his silvery mockingbird-patterned cape set off the silver in his hair. He stopped on the landing.

 

“Good morning, my lord.”

 

“It may well be, Lady Sansa,” he said with a greasy smile and a tip of his head. He took in her gown, his eyes lingering on the bodice, and commented, “It is fortunate that mourning colors become you. I fear you’ll be wearing them soon.”

 

Sansa felt as though a stream of cold water suddenly went rushing over her insides. “Is the king’s injury so grave?”

 

The sound of approaching footsteps made them pause. Sandor appeared but hesitated for only a second when he saw who was on the landing. “Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish,” he rumbled, continuing on his way.

 

The master of coin smirked. “You’ve climbed a lot of stairs for nothing, Clegane. This isn’t the kennels.”

 

Sandor stopped and eyed the smaller man with distaste. “Is it a bird’s nest?”

 

Sansa’s heart stopped. Why was he being so reckless?

 

“Oh, very good, Clegane, but no, I usually make my nest elsewhere.”

 

Sansa’s heart jolted back into motion.

 

“Were you coming to visit Lady Sansa . . . or our good Hand of the King?”

 

“The Hand. Queen’s business,” Sandor said shortly and continued up the stairs.

 

Lord Baelish’s eyes followed him as he climbed but he continued speaking to Sansa as though they hadn’t been interrupted.

 

“‘Grave’ is an apt choice of words, my lady. The king has been mortally wounded. Had the boar’s tusks struck him just a little lower, King Robert may well have died of heartbreak on the spot.”

 

_A boar?_ The quip made no sense to Sansa but Littlefinger continued. “Your mourning clothes will soon be replaced by Joffrey’s cloak. You will make a truly stunning bride, though red, gold, green, and black would not be the colors _I_ would choose for you.” His gaze ranged over her face and hair.

 

“I hope that does not come to pass.”

 

“Oh?” A glint shown in his eyes.

 

“I only meant the king may yet live. Surely Maester Pycelle –“

 

“Maester Pycelle is an old man. He could have been _riding_ the boar and still not reached Robert’s side in time to be useful.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to say to that.

 

Lord Baelish continued on in a quiet, silken voice. “Make no mistake, Lady Sansa. It may be Joffrey who becomes king, but it will be you who makes men bend the knee.”

 

Flustered, Sansa could only say, “You are too kind, Lord Baelish.”

 

He favored her with a tight smile. “I do try, Lady Sansa, I do try, especially for those who are kind to me in return.”

 

The sound of someone running up the steps made them both turn. Arya bounded into view, looking confused to find her sister talking with the master of coin.

 

“Lady Sansa.” Petyr Baelish dipped into a low bow, his eyes traveling up her body before meeting hers. “Lady Arya,” he added with a nod and a snap of his cape as he swept down the staircase, the picture of urbanity.

 

Arya shot her sister a look which clearly asked, _What was that?_ Fortunately, her only spoken words were, “Did you hear?”

 

"Yes. It's terrible."

 

"If he dies, you'll be queen. Maybe that's why Father wants to see you – to marry you to Joffrey right away."

 

Sansa’s stomach twisted. Everyone but her seemed to have had the same thought. "Lord Baelish suggested the same but, if that’s the case, why would he have sent for you, too?"

 

Arya shrugged. "Because he likes me."

 

Sansa gave her a look and Arya grinned at her. Sansa couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the morning making her giddy. Undignified as it was, giggling with her sister lessened her dread of what seemed to be coming.

 

They began to climb the steps together when Sandor thundered past them with a cursory acknowledgement. Sansa stared after his retreating figure in disbelief. “What do you suppose –?”

 

Arya looked at her like she’d taken leave of her senses. “That’s how he always is.”

 

Sansa frowned. _Not truly._

 

*

 

Jory admitted them into the Hand’s chambers with an ashen look and a somber ‘good morning.’

  
Upon entering the room, both girls immediately rushed over to their father, who enveloped them in his arms and kissed the tops of their heads.

 

"Father, are you alright?" Sansa had never seen her father look more worn.

 

"Yes, thank you, Sansa. I'm glad you're both here. Please sit down." He indicated a table where some fruit, sweet rolls, bacon, and boiled eggs waited.

 

"What happened to King Robert?" Arya asked when they were seated. “How was he hurt?”

 

"He was gored by a boar."

 

Sansa grimaced and Ayra’s eyes flew open in surprise.

 

"It's unlikely Robert will live much longer. It took us two days to get him back to the castle. Maester Pycelle is not hopeful that anything can be done at this point and, in truth, the wound seems to be infected in addition to being . . . extensive."

 

"Eww," said Arya, setting down her roll.

 

Sansa gave her a look which she hoped would prompt some compassion. "I'm very sorry, Father." She could not ask him to end the betrothal now, not when his friend was near death. If he brought up her impending marriage, she would express her concerns then. If he didn't, it could wait until a more appropriate time. "Was it a very ferocious boar?"

 

"They're all ferocious but Robert's killed dozens of them before. He'd been drinking and missed his thrust."

 

Something in her father's face suggested he was bothered by that but Sansa wasn't sure why. After all, King Robert drank all the time.

 

Ned Stark continued. "Things are likely to be very unsettled for the next few days and I want you both to stay in the castle. In this tower, preferably." He raised a hand when he saw Arya was about to protest. "You may continue your dancing lessons but otherwise I want you where my men can keep an eye on you. They've been ordered to guard you both more closely." He raised his hand again at Sansa's questioning look. "You've done nothing wrong but I would ask you to stay close until the succession has been finalized."

 

"Yes, Father," Sansa answered though she wasn't clear on why any of it was necessary. Joffrey would be king. What was there to finalize?

 

Arya mumbled her agreement as well. Ned then began to eat his own share of the food and the talk turned to more general matters. When he said he had to write a letter to King Robert's brother, Stannis, the girls bid him a good day and left.

 

*

 

Sansa was true to her word and stayed in the Tower of the Hand that day. She penned a note to Joffrey expressing her concern for his father and offering her assistance in any way that might be useful. As difficult as Joffrey could be, she would not have wished the pain and worry he must surely be feeling on anyone. She thought of Myrcella and sweet little Tommen, too, and wished she could do something to help. Perhaps, on the morrow, she would ask them to join her for cakes and games. They'd never visited her in her rooms - she'd always gone to the royal family's suite - but perhaps the novelty would cheer them a little. Her father hadn't said anything about not receiving visitors.

 

Since the weather was fair, Sansa passed a few hours sewing on her balcony. When she got up to stretch, she peered over the edge and saw the people below going about their business. Her heart stopped when she recognized a tall figure heading toward the stables. Sandor! She wanted to call out to him but propriety would not allow it, even if he could've heard her from atop the Tower. Instead, she stared intently. Harry was with him, carrying something. A blanket? Sansa couldn't make it out. Moments later they were both inside and out of sight. Her heart contracted. It had been less than a day since she'd talked to him but she missed him already. She continued to stare, hoping for another glimpse, despite knowing that she could only see one side of the stables and that it was entirely possible they'd already left through another exit. Still, she had nothing more appealing to do so she stood and watched and was rewarded with another view of Sandor and Harry as they walked out of the stables and disappeared behind another outbuilding, Sansa's heart fluttering for every second that they were in view. Sandor hadn't so much as turned his head in her direction, despite her attempts to will him to do so with her mind. Still, she'd seen him. That was something. Sansa sat down and didn't sew a thing for a while longer.

 

The day stretched on, the uneasy quiet punctuated by bouts of muffled noise as her father received visitors. Sansa ate in the main dining hall with her family that evening, King Robert's empty chair seeming to take up most of the space in the room. She’d tried to offer Joffrey a sympathetic smile but he’d turned away. Sandor was stone still and didn’t so much as move his eyes in her direction. She knew he was right to behave so and it was a relief when the evening ended and she could go to bed.

 

  
*

 

The next morning Sansa dined with her father, sister, and Septa Mordane in her father's chambers, the septa repeating the questions Sansa and Arya had asked the previous day. As they were finishing their meal, Maester Pycelle was announced. He shuffled into the room and wheezed, “My lord, King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest.”

 

There was a collective moment of disbelief and then everyone seemed to move at once. Septa Mordane urged the girls to their feet as Ned asked the maester to summon the small council.

 

Time passed both quickly and slowly after that. Sansa accompanied Septa Mordane to the crowded sept so they could offer their prayers for the dead king. The only thing more fervent than the prayers was the gossip. Lord Renly, it was said, had left the city with Loras Tyrell and fifty retainers. Lord Stannis was already making his way to King’s Landing, others whispered. Some guessed Ned Stark would be made Protector of the Realm and rule in the prince’s stead until he came of age. Guesses and suppositions seemed to stir the very air of the city.

 

“Why would Joffrey’s own uncles dispute his right to the throne?” Sansa whispered to Septa Mordane as they made their way back to the Tower of the Hand.

 

“Perhaps it’s less a dispute and more a desire to guide the young prince until he can take the throne in his own right,” the septa suggested in tones that rang false, if kindly meant, to Sansa’s ear.

 

Even from the solitude of Sansa’s room, it seemed to her that the entire kingdom was holding its breath. The bells rang for King Robert but the stream of callers to her father’s chambers made the Tower feel like a hive buzzing with agitated bees.

 

After eating her evening meal alone in her room, Sansa could take the uncertainty no longer and crept up the stairs. She found Jory at her father’s door.

 

“What’s happening?” she asked him quietly.

 

He looked around the empty hall and answered in an undertone. “The only definite is that Prince Joffrey wants his coronation to take place within the fortnight. Tomorrow he’ll be accepting oaths of fealty from his councilors.”

 

_Where does that leave me?_ Sansa wondered but it was not a question she could put to Jory.

 

“All will be well, Lady Sansa,” Jory assured her with a tired smile.

 

She smiled back but did not share his confidence. She returned to her chambers and let Lucy help her prepare for bed. They made idle conversation about what Sansa should wear to the coronation as Lucy brushed her hair for much longer than was her custom. _She is very kind_ , Sansa thought, soothed by the stroking, _though maybe she is in need of a distraction, too. It has been such a sad, strange day for us all._

 

A short time later, Sansa sank back against her pillows and the mercy of sleep was quickly granted to her.

 

*

 

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. At some point, Sansa was sure she heard light knocking preceding the sound of her door opening. Groggily, she reached out, expecting to find Sandor next to her on the bed. 

 

"Sansa?" a voice whispered. Light footsteps approached.

 

Sansa tried to shake off her sluggishness. What was he doing here? The whole court was back. Still, she was glad he’d come.

 

" _Sansa!_ " the voice whispered more emphatically.

 

"Sandor?" Sansa asked just as she realized it was a female voice calling her. She sat up and was instantly more alert.

 

"No, it's me, Jeyne."

 

" _Jeyne_ _?_ What are you going here?" A terrible fear gripped her. "Oh no! Is it the king?" Then she remembered he'd died earlier that day.

 

"No." Jeyne found Sansa's hand and began to pull her out of bed. "It's the Hound!"


	13. Chapter 13

“The Hound?!”

 

“He  _made_ me come to you! Sansa, it was so scary! He grabbed my arm and practically dragged me here, threatening to  _gut_ me if I made any noise!”

 

Even sleep-fogged, Sansa knew Jeyne had never been in danger and wished she’d get to the point. “Why? What does he want you to do?”

 

“He said I’m to start packing clothes for you. He  _yelled_  at me, Sansa! He didn't raise his voice but he was so  _mean!_ ”

 

“Packing? Jeyne, what for? What  _exactly_  did he say?” None of this made sense. Why wouldn’t Sandor have just come himself?

 

Jeyne shook her head as though trying to dispel the unpleasant memories, the tracks of tears visible on her cheeks in the moonlight. “He said to wake you, send you to your father, wake Arya, and start packing! He said I was to do it quickly,  _right now,_  or else . . .!” she wailed.

 

“But where am I going?!” Less than five minute ago, she’d been peacefully asleep and now she felt caught in the middle of a storm and utterly unable to detect the direction of the wind.

 

“I don’t know! Go see your father! He’ll know what to do!”

 

"Where is Sandor now?"

 

Jeyne gaped at Sansa like she’d just asked her to slap the queen. "I don't know! Just go before he comes back!"

 

“Was he hurt?”

 

“Your father? No, I -”

 

“Sandor! The Hound! Was  _he_  hurt?” Sansa’s chest constricted so hard at the thought that she could scarcely breathe.

 

Jeyne looked flabbergasted at Sansa’s continued delay. “I don’t think so. What does it matter? You have to go. Now! He made that very clear. Please! Just go!  _Go!_ ” She pulled on Sansa’s arm and all but shoved her toward the door. “I’ll wake Arya and then I’ll be back to pack a bag for you.”

 

Sansa threw on a robe and dashed for the stairs. She recognized the two guards on duty, and they seemed surprised to see her at that hour, much less in her nightgown and robe.

 

“Best wait, Lady Sansa. The Hound’s in there. Don’t want  _him_  to see you like that.”

 

“I know he’s there. I have to see my father right away.”

 

The guards exchanged a look but opened the door for her.

 

Sansa ran through the vestibule and into the main room, panic-stricken and short of breath. To her enormous relief, her father was standing calmly next to his desk; Sandor just in front of him, his back to the door. She was still confused but, given Jeyne’s hysteria, she'd thought something terrible was happening. Sansa took a few steps forward and the change in angle revealed Sandor’s extended arm and drawn sword, the unwavering point of which was aimed directly at her father's throat.

 

"What -"

 

"Sansa, go back to your room."

 

 _“No_ ," Sandor commanded without looking at her. "Stay here."

  
Sansa's eyes darted back and forth between them. Her father appeared as calm as could be expected with the Hound apparently ready to open his throat. Sandor's tense shoulders and aggressive stance suggested barely-contained rage and Sansa moved forward, wanting to see his face. "Sandor, what are you doing? What is the matter?"

  
" _Sansa_ ," her father said, " _move away and go back to your-_ "

  
"He won't hurt me." She drew level with Sandor, who didn’t look at her or move. She looked at her father, who had a knife on his belt but made no attempt to reach for it. Turning back to Sandor she said, "What are you doing? Please lower your sword. That's my father."

 

"Tell him I can be trusted," Sandor said without moving his sword.

 

"Of  _course_ you can be trusted. Won't someone please tell me what is happening?"

 

"Tell him to listen to what I've told him."

 

"Father, please -"

 

"Sansa, back  _away_!"

 

Sansa's confusion deepened. Her father seemed to think Sandor would attack her or take her hostage. She couldn't comprehend such a concern but neither could she understand why Sandor was threatening her father, though she knew just as surely that Sandor would not hurt him, either.

 

Just then Arya burst into the room. Unlike Sansa, she seemed to realize at once what Sandor was doing. She hurled toward him, fists ready, and Sansa heard Sandor's low groan of annoyance. He straightened up and lowered his sword. Sansa saw it was aimed at the artery in her father's thigh, a fact which was not lost on him. She could feel the anger rolling off her sister. Everyone seemed upset but Sansa simply could not break through her shell of confusion.

  
"What are you  _doing_?" Arya all but shrieked, making to grab Sandor's arm. He pulled it away quickly and then shoved her shoulder, pushing her away, though not hard. Before she could lunge at him again, Sansa grabbed for her hand and held it. She was suddenly very afraid. Tears were welling up under her eyes. She knew something was terribly wrong, something that had nothing to do with Sandor drawing his sword on her father.

 

"What happened?" she asked. She knew the king's death had set some sort of turmoil surging under the polite facade of the court but she hadn't thought anything more had actually _happened_. Surely her father, as Hand, would have it all straightened out soon but, still, something must have changed.

 

"Tell her," Sandor said. He didn't sound angry any longer. In fact, Sansa thought she detected a trace of relief in his voice.

Ned cast an irritated look at Sandor before turning his eyes to his daughters. "Clegane has brought me some information -"

  
" _Facts_."

  
"- some information that he'd have me act on. Immediately."

  
"Father, than you must! He never lies. Whatever he's told you is the truth!" Cold dread flooded Sansa's heart. If Sandor thought her father should act immediately then it was imperative that he do so. Panic began to rattle her. She squeezed Arya's hand. "Sandor, what happened?"

 

"Tell her."

  
"Sansa, Arya, you may have heard that the Lords Stannis and Renly are going to challenge Prince Joffrey's claim to the throne."

  
They nodded. 

 

"I've advised the queen . . ." He paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. "I've advised her that I'm supporting Lord Stannis's claim."

 

" _What?_ " Sansa spat, thunderstruck. How could her father do anything so blatantly treasonous? Her eyes darted to Sandor to see what he made of this. His eyes did not leave her father's face.

 

Ned held up a hand. "I have my reasons."

  
"But -”

 

"He can explain later," Sandor said briskly.

 

Ned continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Clegane believes the gold cloaks' loyalty is not . . . where it should be." Alarms went off in Sansa's head. "Further, he says the queen has directed him to . . ." He looked disgusted and searched for the words.

 

"I'm to slaughter your father's men if they fight when he doesn't give the queen what she wants tomorrow. Skip to the last part."

 

Sansa gasped as Arya muttered, "He'll do it, too."

 

Ned heaved a breath. "Clegane says the queen will accuse me of treason, have me arrested, and allow me to take the black after removing me as Hand."

 

"No! Father, you have to believe him!"

 

" _And?_ " Sandor sounded angry again.

  
Ned looked angry himself. "Clegane claims to have  _overheard_ ," here he flicked a skeptical look at the taller man, "that Lord Baelish has suggested to Prince Joffrey that a demonstration of power would be more desirable than a show of mercy following my arrest. Something to excite the smallfolk."

  
"The bloody prince all but told me himself. I didn't have to overhear it."

 

Sansa could believe that easily enough. "Father -”

 

"Sansa," her father began before lowering his voice in an attempt at private conversation, "Lord Baelish has been helping me -"

 

"He's double-crossed you then!" Sandor barked. "Lord Baelish breathes in gold and exhales promises. You're a fool if you trust him."

 

Ned bristled.

 

"A halfwit could see what's going to happen if you don’t heed my advice."

 

"What's your advice?" Arya wanted to know.

 

Sansa felt like she couldn't breathe. Even in her father's solar, it seemed as though chaos was about to descend upon them.

  
Sandor began to explain. "A ship is leaving in a few hours -"

  
"Is that why Jeyne woke me up and insisted I start packing?"

  
" _Jeyne_? Did you disturb the whole household, Clegane?" Ned said hotly.

  
Sandor narrowed his eyes at him. "A ship is leaving in a few hours and, if you're wise, you'll be on it. Or send your daughters if you don't care to save yourself."

  
"Father, we must go! I can be ready to leave in moments. I'll leave my dresses . . ."

  
"Can I bring Syrio?"

  
 _Who?_  Sansa wanted nothing but to be gone. She knew Sandor wouldn't have come here on a whim. He did nothing on a whim, it seemed. Except kiss her on Sevenmas. But thank the gods he had. That kiss might have led to the rescue of her family, for rescue it certainly seemed to be.

 

"I've thanked Clegane for his counsel but I believe the queen can be made to see reason."

  
"Reason?! She killed Lady!"

 

"I -"

 

"She made you do it!"

 

“She's just as bad as Joffrey," Arya threw in.

  
"Sansa, Clegane is the most obedient retainer in Lannister service," Ned said with repugnance, giving Sandor a look meant to suppress argument.

 

 _He's in love with_ me _, though!_  Sansa nearly shouted, shocked that she'd stopped the words in time and equally shocked by the realization. How to relate, much less convince, her father of everything she'd come to know about Sandor over the past weeks? There just wasn't enough time! She could not refute the irrelevance of her father's argument strongly enough, not without revealing herself and Sandor in the process, and the necessity to make her father understand was breathtaking. " _Please_." 'Please' was all she could say as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "Please believe him."

 

"If I leave King's Landing, the truth leaves with me. It would be very convenient for Cersei if she could have Clegane here convince me to go. Then she could focus on Renly and Stannis without any opposition from within the court."

 

"I wasn't sent by the queen," Sandor said in a low, dangerous voice.

 

"Then why come?" Ned demanded. "Why should I trust you?"

 

It was Sandor's turn to bristle but Sansa had heard enough. "Please, Father! Believe him! I'm certain the queen didn't send him but, if she did, what does it matter? I don't want you to be sent to the Wall and Joffrey is cruel and unpredictable! You said yourself that he only heeds the queen but if _he's_ king -"

 

"I think we should go," Arya cut in, to Sansa's profound relief.

 

Sansa nodded vigorously. "Yes! Father, we should go.  _Please_. If it's all a mistake, you could come back, we could all come back. Tell the queen you feared for our safety. Tell her we begged you to leave. Tell her  _anything_.  _Please_."

 

Ned looked at his daughters. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. "Alright. We'll go. Your mother would never forgive me if we didn't."

 

Sandor moved aside and sheathed his sword. Sansa rushed forward and hugged her father. "Thank you."

 

Over her head, Ned said, "It seems I'll take your counsel after all, Clegane. I'll see to it we reach the ship before it sails."

 

"I know you will,” Sandor said, resting his hands on his swordbelt. “Because I'm coming with you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was where I'd originally intended for Sandor and Sansa to sail off into the sunset together but I think we'll continue on.


	14. Chapter 14

"You might have mentioned that before," Ned said with an edge in his voice.

 

"You think I’d lose my head to save yours?"

 

The two men glared at each other. Sandor spoke first. “Be at the stables in half an hour. Just you, her,” he nodded toward Arya, “and the girl, since she knows. Lady Sansa, you’ll come with me.” He took Sansa's elbow and steered her in front of him.

  
“No, she won't -,” Ned protested.

 

“Father, it’s fine, truly,” Sansa answered over her shoulder.

 

“Half an hour,” barked Sandor. “And don’t get yourselves caught on the way.”

 

*

 

After leaving her father's chambers, Sandor hustled Sansa to her room, tension seeming to flow through the hand he kept on her arm straight to her trembling heart. Jeyne gasped when they burst into the room. Sandor leaned down and pinched Jeyne's chin, forcing her to meet his eye. "You've got fifteen minutes, girl. Go to your room and pack some clothes for yourself. Then go to her sister's room." He nodded at Sansa.

 

"I don't want to go -"

 

"I don't want to kill you but I will if you don't fucking move. _Now_." Sandor released her chin and she ran toward the door. When she was almost there, he said, "Girl."

 

Jeyne stopped and turned, apprehensive.

 

"I don't need to tell you to keep your mouth shut, do I?"

 

Jeyne shook her head no.

Sandor jerked his chin toward the door and Jeyne disappeared through it. Sansa wondered if she would return but decided Jeyne was too afraid of Sandor to disobey. He turned to look at Sansa and she hurried over to the bag Jeyne had packed for her. Rifling through it, she found dresses, shoes, stockings, and some undergarments. Sansa dashed around, adding the box with the dagger Sandor had given her for Sevenmas, a silk purse with what coins she had, and her comb, hand mirror, and some toiletries. When Sandor stepped out onto the balcony, she grabbed a handful of her fancier undergarments and nightgowns and shoved them into the bottom of her bag. She suddenly remembered she wasn't dressed to travel and quickly stripped down. It was too dark to see detail so she selected a gown by feel and dressed as fast as she could. She was throwing a dark cloak over her head when Sandor returned.

 

"It's quiet, little bird. Are you ready?" he asked.

 

"I think so, though I'm sure I've forgotten something," she answered, looking around the room.

 

"We'll be stopping in Gulltown. If you've forgotten something important, we can replace it then. Right now, we need to get down to the stables."

  
Sansa nodded and took a deep breath. Sandor stepped closer and pulled her against him, kissing her deeply. His breath was warm against her ear as he whispered, "I'll keep you safe, little bird. If anyone tries to stop us, I'll kill them."

 

*

 

Sansa and Sandor left the stables first, followed by Ned and Arya, and then by Jeyne and Harry, each pair departing the city by a different gate. Sansa drank in the cool night air as Stranger’s hooves beat out a soft cadence on the road they were taking to the harbor. She was tucked close to Sandor, surrounded by his arms and cloak, hidden within the heart of him.

 

"We're almost there," he murmured in her ear in a tight voice.

 

She nodded, aware of the danger they were in yet feeling removed from it, secure in Sandor's care. They'd left by the farthest gate and reached the harbor just as the others did. Sandor swung her down from the saddle, brushing a kiss across her lips while Stranger hid them from view. He pulled away with a soft noise just as Sansa began to kiss him back. He put Stranger's reins in her hand as the others approached and then strode over to the dock to speak with the captain. The chink of coins exchanging hands and a few words carried over to where Sansa waited with her father, sister, Jeyne, and Harry.

 

Within moments, Sandor returned. "Bring the horses first," he said to Ned, who responded with a look that suggested his compliance was soon to be in short supply. Still, he led his horse and one of the supply horses onto the ship.

 

“Stay with the baggage," Sandor directed his squire, who nodded and kept looking over both shoulders and all along the harbor, twitching whenever a noise was to be heard.

 

"Stop it," Arya hissed at him. "No one followed us."

 

Harry stood still though his eyes continued to dart all around.

 

Sandor came forward and took the reins from Sansa's hands. "Come with me." He led Stranger toward the gangway with Sansa a half step behind him. "You, too," he added to Arya and Jeyne when he passed them. They boarded the ship. "Go stand over there and stay out of sight of the shore." Then, in a quieter voice, he coaxed Stranger farther along.

 

The middle of the deck was taken up by a mountain of crates, boxes, and other cargo. The girls watched from behind it as Ned brought Harry's horse and the remaining supply horse on board. Their baggage was put in a pile on the deck and the horses were led toward the hold. Harry came last, lugging two small chests that he set down with a thud under Sandor's watchful eye. "Where should I put these?"

 

"Two cabins, captain?" Sandor asked, turning toward a beefy-looking man with a clean-shaven face and heavy jaw waiting near the railing.

 

Sansa had avoided looking at the men on the ship, though the entire crew seemed vastly curious about their new passengers.

 

"That's right, ser."

 

Sandor muttered, "I'm not a _ser_ ," as the captain moved forward.

  
"Perhaps one cabin for the ladies and the other for you, Lord Stark, and the boy?"

 

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. _He knows who we are._

 

"No, thank you, captain. I'll stay with my daughters and . . . my ward," her father said, walking to join the group.

 

"My apologies, Lord Stark, but there are only three bunks per cabin."

 

"That's fine. I'll sleep on the floor."

 

The captain nodded but with a look that hinted Lord Stark would rapidly regret his decision.

 

Her father didn't seem to notice. "If you could show us the way, Captain . . . ?"

 

The captain looked at her father as though he were unsure if he were making a jape. "Dunellen. This way."

 

The captain walked with a shifting gait where he seemed to throw one shoulder out in front of him and then the other, his muscular arms like handles on the sides of his barrel-like torso. Another sailor scurried in front of him with a lantern. Their cabin was one level below deck and had a porthole, which Arya immediately pressed her nose against, fogging it and leaving a mark. The greasy light of the lantern did little to illuminate the room but it was clear there was little comfort and no charm to be had in their quarters. Sansa realized this ship was not truly meant for passengers and that they'd been given rooms typically used by the sailors. There were three bunks, as promised – two on the exterior wall, one above the other, and a third under the sloping eve of the interior wall. Jeyne sat on that one, hung her head, and cried quietly.

 

"Ser and the boy will be in the next cabin," Captain Dunellen explained, shooting glances at Jeyne and speaking more loudly than was necessary to cover the sound of her sniffling. "There's a connecting door but it locks from this side.”

 

Ned nodded, satisfied. "Thank you, Captain. I'll meet with you shortly to discuss payment."

 

He drew his brows together. "Ser's already paid, my lord."

 

Even in the relative gloom, Sansa could see her father pull in the corner of his mouth. "Of course. Thank you."

 

Captain Dunellen nodded briskly and stepped out. He could be heard directing Harry to the room next door.

 

"I want the top bunk!" exclaimed Arya, swinging up to it with the only kind of grace she ever displayed.

  
"Jeyne," Ned said quietly, sitting next to her on the bunk. "I wrote several notes before I left. One was to your father explaining that I was taking you north with us. I assured him you'd be safe with me. I know you didn't have a chance to see him," his voice became harsh, "since Clegane ac _cos_ ted you," he paused briefly, "but I don't want you to worry. You'll be safe at Winterfell and your father won't be far behind. I instructed Jory to wake everyone and have them leave King's Landing as soon as they could be ready."

 

Jeyne nodded and blubbered out her thanks. Ned looked at her, worried, but patted her shoulder and rose. "I need to talk to Clegane."

 

"I want to come, too!" Arya said, jumping down from the bunk.

 

"It's late. You should get to bed. Or unpack your things if you can't sleep."

 

"I'd like to come, too." Sansa knew she should stay and comfort her friend but she thought Jeyne might want a few moments alone and, besides, she wanted to know what was going on.

 

Ned frowned but said, "You can come up to the main deck but stay -"

 

"- out of sight of the shore. We know. The Hound already told us," Arya said before ducking out the door.

  
Ned's look darkened. He followed Arya into the passageway and Sansa followed him, shutting the door behind her.

 

"Father . . ."

 

He looked at her and her heart went out to him. She’d never seen him look so worried and tired. Sansa wanted to tell him he could trust Sandor; that he had honor. Maybe not the kind her father was used to rewarding among his men, but her father didn’t give the kinds of orders the Lannisters did. Surely he knew that. Surely he could see that Sandor was brave and did not flinch from his duties, no matter how abhorrent they could be. Sansa realized with a start that her father did not see things that way. At best, he saw Sandor as a deserter and a traitor to his word, but why should Sandor be condemned if he no longer chose to serve the very king her father hoped to prevent from taking the throne? Sansa wanted to talk about all this with him but she knew now was not the time and merely said, "I believe he's sincere in his efforts to help us."

 

Ned's face softened. "Sansa, it is kind and generous of you to think so." He looked more sad than pleased but didn’t say more and she followed him to the main deck.

 

Captain Dunellen was nowhere to be seen but several sailors were around, adjusting rigging and otherwise preparing to sail. Arya was already talking to two of them, asking questions and making them laugh. Sandor wasn't there.

 

“Stay here. He might have gone to check on the horses,” Ned said as he made his way along the mountain of crates.

 

Sansa stood and looked at the moonlight filling the endless cups of water on the bay's surface. When a hand came to rest on her shoulder, she thought her father had returned but then she heard his voice from several feet away and jumped.

 

“Clegane!”

  
Sansa spun to find Sandor behind her. He let go of her shoulder.

  
Her father’s eyes narrowed but he seemed appeased that the Hound had unhanded his daughter. “The captain told me you paid for our passage. That was unnecessary. I'll repay you when we reach Winterfell, plus extra for your trouble and your expenses to wherever you’re going."

 

Sandor made a dismissive gesture. “It wasn’t much.”

 

In a harsh whisper, Ned said, "You don't think I'd believe this captain and crew would ferry us to safety for just a few coins. Not when they know the Lannisters will be wroth when they learn we've gone. The price for their silence must have far exceeded the cost of the voyage."

 

"If you want to offer them more gold, go ahead.”

 

“So you’d have me in your debt,” Ned said in dark tones. It pinched at Sansa’s heart to see how little her father wanted to accept anything from Sandor.

 

“I’ll accept your thanks and consider us even. If you want to repay me beyond that, you’ll think of a way. I don’t need gold.”

 

“Perhaps not, but you do need protection from the Lannisters.”

 

“Protection from the Lannisters?” Sandor scoffed. “It wasn’t my head Joffrey was planning to lop off.”

  
“He might change his mind once he knows you’ve deserted.”

 

Sandor’s face hardened.

 

“You haven’t said why. You’ve served their family for years and now your prince would be king. You’ve got gold, a good horse . . . and considerable leeway,” Ned added with a trace of contempt.

 

Sandor spat over the railing and glowered. “Even a dog gets tired of being kicked,” he said.

 

Ned looked skeptical but didn’t challenge his answer. “I suppose you want a place at Winterfell.”

 

Sansa was on tenterhooks. Things had been happening so fast since Jeyne woke her that she’d barely had time to breathe but, now, any outcome other than Sandor taking up a position at Winterfell was unthinkable.

 

After a long pause, Sandor said, “Lady Sansa tells me you treat your men fairly.”

 

“I pray to the old gods that she has the right of it.”

 

“She says they trust you.”

 

“There’s not a man in my service I don’t trust in return,” Ned answered with a slight edge in his voice.

 

Sandor said nothing but Sansa frowned at the insinuation behind her father’s words. "Father, when will we sail?" she asked to ease the conversation past the uncomfortable place where it had stopped.

 

"When the tide turns."

  
“Can’t we at least go out into the bay? The gold cloaks couldn’t reach us there . . .” It was one thing to be caught on the road, excuses might be made then, but getting caught on a ship with one's belongings would be incriminating beyond denial. The tension between her father and Sandor was making Sansa nervous. She looked around. Arya was farther along the deck, a sailor pointing out something among the masts and sails to her. A few men were sitting at the rear of the ship drinking and singing bawdy songs. The complacency she saw was maddening. She was eager to be gone, to be safe from the young, cruel king.

  
“Sansa, until the tide turns, we’ll just be pushed back into the bay. _With_ the tide, we’ll be pulled out into the Narrow Sea. No captain sails against the tide unless he has to.”

 

Sansa couldn’t argue against the logic in that. “How long will it take us to get to Gulltown?”

 

Her father looked at her with surprise and Sansa immediately wished the words unspoken.

 

“Gulltown? Is there anything else you’d care to mention, Clegane?” her father asked, looking over her shoulder.

 

“Gulltown is the only stop. Then we’ll sail to White Harbor,” Sandor answered indifferently before adding, “And the captain thinks he’s in your debt.”

Her father frowned. “And why would he think that?”

 

“Lord Baelish is interested in collecting a debt from Dunellen. The captain can’t pay it. Luckily for him, you noticed his arrival today and sent me to suggest he not linger in King’s Landing. In exchange for that information, he agreed to take you and your family to White Harbor.”

 

Ned glared at Sandor. “How dare you use my name –”

 

“Your name’s not worth as much as you think it is, Lord Stark, Warden of the bloody North, Hand of the dead King,” Sandor snapped. “The captain only agreed to wait until the next tide. That was this afternoon. It was my gold that kept him here.”

 

“Your gold. Blast your gold and blast your lies! I’ll not be tricked into paying you more –”

 

“Tricked?” Sandor turned his head and regarded Ned with one eye, danger radiating off him. “Every word I’ve told you is the truth. But be a damned fool if you choose. Take your chances with Joffrey and see if you like _his_ truth better.”

 

Their fighting, even if hissed in undertones, was scaring Sansa. She could not allow her father to go back to the city and she was afraid he’d try if Sandor kept goading him.

 

“Truth?” Her father’s tone was colder than solid ice. “The _truth_ is that you didn’t come to me until nightfall, when our departure couldn’t have looked more suspicious or been more dangerous. The tide was already in so spare me this tale about the value of your gold, Clegane.”

 

“The tide was already in because you refused to admit me when I came to you this morning.”

 

Goosebumps prickled Sansa’s skin. Sandor had passed her on the stairs when she was talking with Lord Baelish that morning and descended them angrily moments later. From her balcony, she’d seen him and Harry carrying something into the stables. Sansa wondered if Sandor would have left without her and shivered. Their flight from the city felt like an even narrower escape than it had before, and it still wasn’t a sure thing.

 

Sandor was still speaking. “- thousands of poxy peasants in the streets, every gate open. No one would have questioned your coming to the harbor then. Your men could’ve been leaving the city all day. But the great Lord Eddard Stark wouldn’t see the king’s dog. Too bloody busy deciding who’s worthy of sitting on a throne that’s not his to give.”

  
“I wouldn’t expect you to set much store by the notion of keeping your word, but King Robert -”

 

“- didn’t know what you found out, did he? Half the bloody Red Keep suspected but not Robert. He made you Protector of the Realm and you kept your word to him by trying to put his brother on the throne. And you call me a liar? Piss on that. I’ve told you what you wanted to know. My gold kept this ship here and that’s the truth.” He gripped the railing and glared out at the water.

 

Ned turned away and rattled off a string of oaths unlike anything Sansa had ever heard him say. She looked at their backs and hoped they wouldn’t resume arguing. They were both right and they were both wrong and, even if she’d understood everything they were talking about, she wouldn’t have wanted to choose a side.

 

No one said anything further for a few minutes. Sansa’s stomach was in knots and both Sandor and her father were steaming.

 

“Is Gulltown far?” Sansa asked Sandor in a small voice when she could no longer take the silence, upset that her blunder had started the row between him and her father in the first place.

  
“With good wind we’ll be there in a day or two. Then we’ll sail around the Fingers, past the Three Sisters, and into White Harbor.” His eyes met hers but there was none of the warmth she’d grown accustomed to seeing there.

  
Sansa nodded. _Only one port between us and the north, where we’ll be entirely safe and free to ride to Winterfell without fear of pursuit._ It seemed so easy. Except they weren't anywhere near Gulltown or White Harbor. They were still in King's Landing. On a boat still docked in the harbor where the very moonlight seemed to fill their sails and weigh them down.

Sansa walked down the deck to the end of the mound of cargo. She peeked around the corner and squinted through the darkness to the harbor. Torches on other ships and those carried by people moving along the dock bobbled up and down. Sansa looked harder. Did the gently rocking ship make it look like they were moving, or were they bobbing because they were being carried by men on horseback? 


	15. Chapter 15

Sansa stared at the harbor but the torch light did not form any regular pattern. The mounted men she saw were solitary and no one seemed to be paying their ship any particular attention. She peered several moments longer to be sure. As she breathed a sigh of relief, she heard her father say, “Clegane."

 

Sansa hurried back to where she’d left him and Sandor. Her heart beat wildly in anticipation of what her father would say. Sandor turned and looked at him, expressionless.

 

"I had forgotten you'd come to see me this morning." Each word sounded like it was being prompted by a knife to the back. Sansa's eyes teared up. She knew this must be hard for her father but he was doing the right thing, as he always did. It made her proud. He continued, "That's not to say I agree with you on anything else but you were right in that I did decline to see you this morning.”

 

Sandor didn’t say anything, apparently waiting for Ned to go on.

 

“I will repay you the gold you spent. _That_ , I insist on. I still don’t believe our hasty removal was necessary but, if Sansa and Arya feel safer for having left, then you have my thanks.”

 

Sandor nodded. Ned looked a little miffed that Sandor had no further response but didn’t comment. The three of them stood and looked out into the bay in silence, the sound of Arya’s laughter drifting down to them.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Captain Dunellen appeared and the sailors rose and buzzed over the deck like so many insects. When they at last lifted the anchor, Sansa felt like an equivalent weight had been lifted from her shoulders and heart. Standing at the rail between her father and Sandor, she watched the mouth of the bay approach with a relief so intense it made her knees weak. The strain of the night left her exhausted and she raised a hand to cover her mouth as she yawned.

 

“You should rest,” Sandor suggested quietly.

 

“We should all rest,” her father answered, pushing away from the rail. “Arya!” he called.

 

“I’ll tell the captain to wake us if anything happens,” Sandor said, striding off, only his cloak brushing against Sansa as he left.

 

Sansa went below deck with her father and sister. Jeyne was curled into a tight ball, fast asleep. The girls changed while their father waited in the passageway. They tried to make themselves comfortable in their quarters, Ned in a haphazard nest of blankets on the wooden floor. The gentle rocking of the ship, the early hour, and the strain of the day all dragged Sansa down into a deep sleep.

 

*

 

The next morning, Sansa awoke quite late. Her father and Arya were already gone but Jeyne was sitting on her bunk, looking uneasy.

 

“Jeyne, are you unwell?”

 

She nodded miserably. “The rocking is making me sick.”

 

Sansa pitied her. Jeyne hadn’t wanted to come and now she was ill. “Let’s dress and go up on the deck. The fresh air is sure to be good for you. Have you eaten?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ll see if I can get you a nice cup of tea.”

 

They dressed and Sansa took Jeyne’s arm and guided her down the passageway to the stairs that led to the main deck. “Sit here,” she suggested, helping Jeyne down onto a bench near the middle of the ship. “The sun feels nice, doesn’t it?”

 

Jeyne smiled weakly. Sandor appeared at Sansa’s side, Ned approaching from the rear of the ship.

  
“What’s wrong, Jeyne?” her father inquired kindly. “Are you not feeling well?”

 

“No, my lord, I’m afraid not.”

 

“I thought some tea might help her,” Sansa said, unsure of where to get any. Where did the sailors prepare their food?

 

“Harry!” Sandor called. His squire rushed over. “Do anything Lady Sansa asks of you.”

 

“That’s very kind, thank you. Harry, would you please see if you can find some tea for Jeyne? Maybe some bread, too?”

 

“Yes, m’lady,” he said and hurried off.

 

“Keep your head up, girl, and look at the horizon,” Sandor advised Jeyne, who looked sicker for being addressed by him.

 

“It’ll pass, Jeyne,” Ned said.

  
Jeyne nodded but trembled a bit.

 

Before long, Harry returned with a tray of food and a smiling member of the crew who introduced himself as Brien, the first mate. “Cap’n Dunellen could’na be spared from his duties but he sends his regrets that one o’ the ladies is sick.” He assessed Jeyne’s pallor with an _mm hmm_ and announced, “You jus’ need your sea-legs, lass. Drink this. Ginger tea. Takes the edge off.”

 

Jeyne accepted the cup he offered with shaky hands and took a tiny sip of the warm liquid.

 

“There,” Brien said with immense satisfaction. “Better already.” He nodded as though Jeyne had just been cured before their very eyes.

 

“Thank you,” Sansa said to him.

 

“My pleasure, miss. You need aught else, you jus’ send the boy.” Brien left them with a spring in his step and the happy air of a man who’d just performed a great service for his fellow man with minimal cost in time or effort to himself.

 

“I’ll sit with her,” Sansa said to the others, noticing Harry was eyeing Jeyne with the apprehension one usually reserves for large and unpredictable wild animals.

 

Her father and Harry disappeared behind the mound of crates. Sandor moved farther along the deck behind Jeyne and was approached by one of the sailors. Sandor talked to him but kept an eye on Sansa and Jeyne. Sansa turned her attention to her friend and coaxed some toast into her.

 

After a half hour or so, Jeyne had managed about half the tea and a few more bites of bread. Sansa had broken her fast on fruit and cheese since Jeyne had firmly refused it.  Sansa wasn’t sure she liked the flavor of the ginger tea but drank it anyway in an effort toward prevention.

 

“Would you like to walk a bit?” Sansa asked when Jeyne looked a little better.

 

“I don’t think so but you can go. Thank you for sitting with me.”

 

“I’ll check back on you soon.”

 

When Jeyne nodded, Sansa rose and walked to where Sandor was leaning against the railing alone. Without a word, he fell in step with her and they slowly made their way along the deck, the boat gently rocking beneath their feet. For a while, neither of them spoke though Sansa enjoyed being close to him again and relished his scent mixed with the sea air. “I’m glad we left King’s Landing,” she eventually remarked.

 

“Aye. Things there will have gone to shit by now,” he said with a smirk.

 

“Septa Mordane must be so worried.” Sansa could not help but think she should have insisted she come, too, and felt guilty that the thought was only now occurring to her.

 

Sandor _hmm_ ed but didn’t say anything further. When they completed their circuit, they found Jeyne with her head resting on the railing, looking small and pitiful. “Sansa, I think I’d like to lie down. Would you help me to our cabin, please?”

 

“Of course,” Sansa answered, moving forward to help Jeyne to her feet.

 

“Take this with you,” Sandor told her, picking up a bucket that was nearby.

 

Sansa hoped it wouldn’t be needed but accepted it and she and Jeyne shuffled off toward the stairs together.

 

*

 

When Sansa returned to the main deck, she found her father at the front of the ship sitting on a box, brow furrowed, hands clasped under his chin, his eyes fixed on the distance. Sansa sat next to him and he gave her a tired smile.

 

“You don’t seem happy, Father.”

 

“I made a bad decision, Sansa. I abandoned my men and ran. They’ll be lucky to get out of the city without a fight.”

 

“I’m sure none of them will think less of you for saving yourself and your family.”

 

“They have families, too, and care about their lives just as much as I care about mine. The north remembers, Sansa.  I put myself before my men and they won’t soon forget it.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to say.

 

“And to have allowed Sandor Clegane to come with us . . .” Ned shook his head in self-recrimination.

 

“If not for him, we’d still be in King’s Landing.”

 

“And safe, in all likelihood,” her father said bitterly.

 

“You don’t believe him? Killing you to put on a mummer’s show sounds exactly like something Joffrey would do.”

 

Her father looked at her from the corner of his grey eyes. “Then why did you want to stay betrothed to him?”

 

Sansa frowned and looked down at the deck. “I was wrong. I was going to ask you to break the match when you came back from the hunt but then King Robert was hurt and you were so busy. . .”

 

“You should have told me. I would have sent you back to Winterfell right away with a full complement of guards.”

 

“But then you would have stayed. I think it’s better this way.”

 

“I’m not sure I’d call being in the company of Sandor Clegane ‘better.’”

 

Sansa paused. “He’s not a bad man, Father.” She hurriedly went on when she saw Ned was about to protest. “I know his reputation and, indeed, he’s earned it in many ways, but . . . he’s not all bad.”

 

“Sansa –” Her father seemed to weigh his words. “I know he might seem like a hero right now, orchestrating our departure, but -”

  
“It has nothing to do with that!”

 

“Sansa, you have no idea of the kind of man he is.”

 

Sansa knew the time to enlighten her father had come. She hoped he’d be receptive and not too angry. If nothing else, maybe it would stop the two of them from fighting for the duration of their trip. Bracing herself, she said, “I know him better than you think I do.”

 

Her father flew to his feet, his face contorted in rage. “What the seven hells does that mean? How could you possibly know him?” Then a worse idea seemed to occur to him. “Has he bothered you in any way? I swear it, I’ll-”

 

“No!” A series of images from the past weeks flickered through Sansa’s mind. She was pretty sure her father would call waking up to find the Hound in your chambers, gazing at you in your sleep, ‘bothered.’ “No, Father, please believe me. He has been . . .  a friend. Nothing more.” It pained her to lie but if this was her father’s reaction to their merely talking . . .

 

“A friend,” her father spat. “I’m sure friendship isn’t what he had on his mind.”

 

Sansa gave him a reproving look. “That’s unkind. To both of us.”

 

Ned scowled at her as he sat back down. “I know it’s not in your nature to behave like . . . to lead . . .” Sansa could tell it was with a tremendous effort that her father mastered himself when he said in a relatively level voice, “How did you come to know him?”

 

“I . . . I spent some time in his company during Sevenmas and while you were gone on the hunt.”

 

Her father opened his mouth but then clamped it shut. After a moment he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I didn’t think you’d approve.”

 

Ned looked like he was fighting back a torrent of words he limited his response to, "I don't.” When Sansa didn't reply, he added, "And?”

 

“I asked to accompany him on his rounds one night when he found me walking to the godswood by myself.”

 

“The godswood at night, Sansa?” He exhaled in an exhausted kind of way. “I would hope you’d be more careful than that.”

 

“Sandor said-”

 

“ _Sandor_?”

 

“I can’t call him ‘Hound’ and he’s not a _ser_ ,” she explained quickly to let him know it was beside the point.

 

Her father’s expression told her he was choosing not to argue the point, little though he liked it.

 

“He said I shouldn’t walk alone at night and offered to take me back to my rooms.”

 

Ned muttered something about ‘sense’ as Sansa added, “I didn’t want to go back to my rooms. I’d only just left them. I asked if I could go on his rounds with him and he let me.”

 

“Of course he did,” her father grumbled. “Wandering around alone in the dark with the Hound . . .” He shook his head.

 

“Father.” She wanted to be able to prove her point.

 

“What happened?”

 

“We walked and talked. I told him about life at Winterfell and he told me about serving the Lannisters. Truly, Father, he’s perfectly reasonable. He just doesn’t like the falseness of the court. It makes him angry.”

 

Ned looked at her evenly, betraying neither belief nor disbelief.

 

Sansa thought she’d say one last thing in Sandor’s favor. “He . . . he also saved me from this knight . . .”

 

“What knight?” Her father looked angry again.

 

“His name is William Dench.”

 

Her father shook his head in lack of recognition.

 

“I’m not sure who he served. Sandor would know. Anyway, he’s gone now.”

 

“What did he do, Sansa, and why didn’t you tell me at once?”

 

“Nothing, truly, though he made me uncomfortable. He said I was pretty and asked my name. I told him and he seemed surprised-”

 

“I’ll bet.”

 

“But then Sandor came and . . .  got rid of him.”

 

“He killed this man in front of you?” Her father looked horrified.

 

“No! He . . . shook him and scared him off. That was all! Sandor told me later that the man had left the city.”

 

Her father huffed out a breath and glared down at the worn boards of the deck. “Damn Robert and that hunt,” he murmured. “It was the worst idea he ever had, and he had plenty of them. I trail after him through the woods and leave you in the company of Sandor Clegane. In a span of weeks, I fail my daughter and abandon my men. Gods forgive me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. Then he pinched the top of the bridge of his nose as though he had a pounding headache.

 

“Father, you’re too hard on yourself. No harm has come to anyone.”

 

“I don’t like it, Sansa. I should have been there for you then and I should still be there now for my men, though there may have been some merit to removing you and your sister from the city."

 

“Father, I don’t think Sandor made any of it up. Joffrey would want his people to fear him.”

 

“Then what was his motive for coming along?”

 

“He told you. He doesn’t want to serve the Lannisters anymore.”

 

“That’s what he says but I don’t trust him.”

 

“Father -”

 

“I heard every word you said, Sansa, but his history is vicious and violent. That business with the butcher's boy . . ."

 

“He was following orders. You know that."

 

“I saw him bring the boy’s body back.” He paused, looking disapproving. “Some duties aren’t meant to be enjoyed.”

 

Sansa doubted Sandor could enjoy something so horrific, tender as he was with her. It was bad enough Arya carried a grudge against him because of that terrible incident. She didn’t want her father’s opinion clouded by it, too. "I’m sure he didn’t enjoy it, Father,” she said softly.

 

Ned looked unconvinced.

 

“Please just . . . don’t make him leave Winterfell as soon as we get there. He’s put himself in danger, too, and it was on our behalf.” Seeing her father’s expression she hurried to add, “Yes, he may benefit, too, but, please, don’t cast him out just because you don’t like him. Even you have to admit he’s one of the best warriors in Westeros.”

 

“Are you hinting that I should ask him to be your sworn shield?”

 

Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise. “No. What use would I have of a sworn shield at Winterfell?” she answered without thinking.

 

“Good.”

 

Sansa immediately regretted her thoughtless answer but, truly, she was perfectly safe at Winterfell. A sworn shield would be a laughable pretense.

 

“Father –"

 

“Sansa, I’m not happy that you deceived me in regards to your . . . knowledge of Sandor Clegane. I’ll keep your opinion of him in mind but I’ll make neither of you any promises. The most important thing now is getting home and regaining the trust of my men, if and when they come back. I could hardly blame them if they chose to serve a more faithful lord, and one who doesn’t have the Lannister’s dog trailing after him.” He blew out a breath.

 

“They’ll come home, Father, you’ll see.” Sansa leaned over and kissed his cheek. He squeezed her hand and smiled, though it did nothing to brighten his eyes. “Thank you for listening to me.”

 

“Sansa,” her father began.

 

“Yes?” she said when he didn’t go on.

  
“I know your company is limited on this boat but men like Clegane aren’t used to having the attention of pretty girls like you. Through no fault of your own, he might get the wrong idea. I want you to be careful. And I want you to tell me _at once_ if he or anyone else makes you feel uneasy.”

 

Sansa sagged a bit. She hadn’t convinced him of Sandor’s worth but, still, it was a start and she felt better about admitting to their relationship, such as it was. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have to feel as though merely talking to him was wrong. “I will, Father,” she promised as she stood to leave.

 

Ned nodded and returned his gaze to the water.

 

Sansa looked down the length of the ship and, not seeing Sandor, set off to find him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone following this story! I'm very flattered that there are so many of you and apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Hope you enjoy it. :-)

Sansa found Sandor in the hold where the horses were being kept. He was talking quietly to Stranger and stroking his nose, though he turned quickly when he sensed her arrival.

 

"Little bird."

 

Sansa smiled. "I just talked to Father about us."

 

" _What?_ " Dark fire ignited in his eyes.

 

"I didn't tell him everything!" she assured him as quietly as she could.

 

The breath fell out of Sandor's mouth and he looked around as though expecting the person behind this mummery to step forward and reveal the jape. "Are you trying to get me killed?"

 

"I told him we were  _friends_. Nothing more. I thought it would help if he wasn't so . . . suspicious of you."

 

"And telling him that we're  _friends_  would make him  _less_  suspicious?"

 

Sansa tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why that would be but, when he put it that way, there wasn't much she could say. "I thought it would help if he knew I think well of you and that you've been kind to me. I told him how you saved me from William Dench . . ." She quailed when she saw he still looked annoyed. "You'd rather go on fighting? How will that help anything?"

 

"He doesn't need to like me to see sense." Sandor turned his back on her and went back to Stranger. He picked up a brush and began to smooth it over the horse's glossy black coat.

 

Sansa watched him for a moment. "It would be ever so nice if you got along."

 

Sandor gave her a withering look over his shoulder. "Don't start writing a song, little bird."

 

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy."

 

"Not if you like being disappointed."

 

Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "You have no reason to be disappointed. So you might as well be happy."

 

Sandor turned and regarded her, a retort on his lips, but then his expression softened. He put down Stranger's brush and crossed the distance between them. "If you're not disappointed then I'm not, either," he said in a husky voice as he began to bend down toward her.

 

Just as Sansa's heart began to patter faster, Harry stepped into the shadows of the hold. "They're -" He stopped, seeming to sense that he'd interrupted something. Sandor and Sansa each stood straighter and leaned away from each other. "They're bringing food to the top deck for us."

 

Sandor grunted at him and, after looking at them each in confusion, Harry turned and left. "Should've found a bigger boat," Sandor muttered as he put away Stranger's grooming supplies, his horse knickering in protest.

 

*

 

As they ate their midday meal on the deck, Arya regaled them with tales of all she and Harry had seen and found on their excursions below deck, interrupting herself several times to greet various passing sailors by name. It seemed all of the sailors talked to Arya . . . but they looked at Sansa. She would nod or smile in return before demurely looking away but she could sense Sandor bristle every time it happened. Unwarranted though his reaction was, she understood it was driven by insecurity and pitied him his discomfort. She saw his frown deepen after another sailor tipped his head in acknowledgement of her and was grateful when Captain Dunellen stopped by.

 

"We'll make port in Gulltown tomorrow morning. Only for a few hours, mind."

 

"Lord Stark, may I go ashore when we dock, please?" Jeyne asked. Her queasiness was still making her uneasy and Ned had nearly had to insist she join them on the main deck to eat a little food.

 

Ned looked at her with sympathy but it was Sandor who answered. "No one's going ashore." He tore the remaining flesh off a chicken leg and chewed it, going on when he saw Jeyne turn imploring eyes upon Ned. "You might be recognized. Anyone with half a brain will know where we're going. No need to confirm it. Besides," he tossed the bone overboard, "your seasickness won't be helped by being on land. It'll only make it worse when we sail again." 

 

Jeyne sagged and pouted.

 

"Here." Sandor pushed a flagon of wine toward her chuckling. "Drink enough of that and you won't care about the waves."

 

Ned looked nearly as displeased as Jeyne did. Sandor didn't seem to notice. He rose from the makeshift table where they dined and moved to talk with one of the sailors. Conversation resumed but Sansa noticed Sandor gave the sailor some coins and seemed to be conveying instructions.

 

*

 

The next morning was clear and bright and Jeyne leaned on the railing, looking wistfully at the shore as they approached Gulltown. Sansa's comments were met with one syllable answers until she fell silent. Sandor approached and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Go below decks," he said quietly. "You, too, girl," he added more loudly to Jeyne. "We don't need to be seen."

 

Jeyne stalked past him without a glance. "She just doesn't feel well," Sansa said by way of apology for her friend's behavior.

 

"Bugger that," he muttered, taking hold of Sansa's elbow as a fair-sized wave rolled the ship.

 

They found the rest of their party in the two cabins. The doors, including the connecting one between them, were open. Sansa heard her father explaining to Harry their anticipated route home. Harry was asking questions about the north, having only come into Sandor's service after they'd returned from Winterfell more than a year ago. Arya was interjecting with tidbits of information about the area, people, plants, and animals. 

 

Sandor gave Sansa a gentle push on her lower back when they reached her door and then walked the few additional feet to enter the cabin he shared with his squire. Everyone listened as the ship bumped into port and the sailors called to one another. Sansa tried to make conversation but the stilted answers and general tension prevented the start of any kind of flow and soon they all sat in silence, listening to the sound of cargo being moved above their heads. Ned sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, lost in thought. Arya reclined on her bunk with her foot hanging over the edge, swinging it back and forth while she murmured nonsense like "patient as a turtle." Jeyne looked out the porthole until Ned suggested she'd be more comfortable away from the window; then she moved to her bunk, curled on to her side, and faced the wall. Harry, out of questions about the north, crawled into the top bunk in his cabin and slept. Sandor lounged on his own bunk and gazed at Sansa through the doorway, invisible to everyone in their cabin but Arya, who was facing the other way. Sansa sat as well and wished she'd brought her sewing. 

 

Arya's foot nearly caught her in the face so she moved back, leaned against her pillow, and returned Sandor's gaze. He was laying back with his hands behind his head, one leg extended along the bunk, his other foot on the floor, knee bent. Sansa's eyes moved from his heavy boots to the space between his legs and over the flat plane of his stomach. The sleeves of his tunic had slipped down revealing the dense muscles in his forearms; his long, black hair lay this way and that over his broad shoulders. Sansa found his grey eyes regarding her openly and with interest. There was something so masculine and confident in his pose. Inviting, too. She longed to lay with him, fitting herself against him with her head on his shoulder and his strong arm curled around her. She'd trace her fingertips over his muscled abdomen and press her lips to the side of his neck. He'd -

 

Her father cleared his throat and Sansa started.  _Such thoughts!_  She'd nearly forgotten that she and Sandor were not alone. She sneaked another look at him and the weight of his gaze was as heavy as ever. She looked away but her eyes couldn't help themselves. They flitted back to Sandor, who looked amused. He reached down and absentmindedly scratched at the light beard he'd grown. Sansa's eyes took in his jaw before moving down to his neck. Her favor was long gone but she pondered giving him another. When she looked back at his face, she found the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. He crooked a finger in invitation to join him. Sansa felt her brow furrow and her eyes slid to her father.  _He can't be serious._  She looked back and saw Sandor was grinning, enjoying her confusion. Sansa wrinkled her nose at him but was delighted by his teasing. After ascertaining that her father wasn't paying attention and calling to mind some things she'd seen ladies of the court do, she turned away and slowly dragged her fingertips along the side of her neck and across her collarbone before letting her touch trail away over her chest. From the corner of her eye, she looked at Sandor and saw his grin had faded into something more heated. Sansa turned to regard him fully and allowed a smile to spread across her face. 

 

Sandor shook his head at her in mock warning. He let his gaze rest heavily on her chest and then met her eye again, giving his head a small jerk to the side. Sansa looked down, unsure of what he wanted. She fingered the neckline of her gown and looked up at him through her eyelashes. Sandor gave a small nod. Sansa dipped her fingertips under the neckline at her shoulder and very slowly moved them down as though she intended to cup her breast, her eyes darting between Sandor and her father, liking that the former sat up to watch and dreading the notice of the latter. Sandor stared as her fingers skimmed over the tops of her breasts and then entwined themselves in her hair as she held his eye. The corner of his mouth twitched. Sansa gave a small jerk of her chin.  _Your turn._  Sandor looked at her askance and then shook his head no. Sansa drew back in surprise but then nodded.  _Yes._ Sandor shook his head again. Sansa shrugged one shoulder and made to turn aside, opening her mouth as though to address her father or Jeyne. Sandor cleared his throat. Sansa looked back at him with polite attention and was amused to find him looking ruffled, though she didn't let it show. Agitation plain on his face, he tossed his hands out, palms up, clearly asking,  _What?_  Sansa took a moment to consider, suppressing a smile all the while.

 

She crossed her hands in front of her and tugged on an imaginary shirt hem. Sandor cocked his head to the side, all traces of amusement gone. Sansa cocked her own head and raised her eyebrows, waiting. Sandor huffed and glanced up at Harry's sleeping form. In one fluid motion, he stood and hauled his tunic up to his underarms. Sansa almost gasped in surprise at his sudden acquiescence but the sight of his naked torso silenced her. Her gaze flowed over his chest and along the trail of dark hair to his stomach, sinking into each valley between his muscles along the way. Her eyes lingered at his waist where the muscle appeared absolutely solid, the familiar indentations above his hipbones calling to her. She wanted to touch him so badly it nearly caused her to moan in frustration. With some effort, she raised her eyes to Sandor's face and indicated he should turn around. He did so and her fingertips tingled with the desire to slip down the depression in the middle of his back before clutching his hips. Just as her mind began to wander with that thought, his tunic dropped down and he sat on his bunk. 

 

Sansa blinked and closed her mouth. Sandor looked at her. Sansa felt worse for the tease. A fun diversion became a gnawing ache and Sansa didn't try to hide it from Sandor. He gave her a grim look in return but something in his manner settled. He crooked his finger at her again with a faint smile. Sansa frowned and shook her head, hating that she couldn't throw herself into his arms and tumble down onto his bunk with him. His smile broadened as he nodded. Despite herself, Sansa felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. She stole a look at her father and then motioned for Sandor to come to her. 

 

Her breath choked off in her throat when Sandor rose and strode toward her, his gaze never wavering from her face.  _What is he doing?_ He ducked through the doorway into her cabin and, looking her full in the face, said, "Lord Stark?" Then his eyes moved over to her father as Sansa's heart threatened to pound through her chest.

 

"Yes?"

 

"I'm going to find Dunellen and see when we sail again. It's been quiet up there for a while."

 

Her father rose from the floor. "I'd like to talk with him, too, and see if he sent those ravens. Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, please stay here."

 

Ned moved toward the door and Sandor followed him, favoring Sansa with a smug look on his way out. Sansa's cheeks burned for several minutes after their departure.

 

*

 

An hour later, they left Gulltown and were free to return to the top deck. One of the sailors approached Sandor with a bag.

 

"What's that?" Arya asked.

 

"Arya!" Sansa hissed under her breath. Her sister's manners were no better at sea than on land.

 

Everyone was looking at Sandor now. To Sansa's surprise, he said, "I'll show you." He moved toward the makeshift table upon which they'd taken to eating their meals.

 

Sansa and the rest of their party gathered around.

 

He pulled out a board of alternating colored squares from the bag, followed by various pieces representing parts of an army, though there were an elephant and a dragon, too. "It's a game. Lady Sansa, would you care to play?"

 

"I'd be happy to. How do you play?"

 

Sandor looked toward the sailor who'd brought it to him and the man explained that the game was called Cyvasse and he went over the rules and what to do with the pieces. Sandor sat opposite Sansa and they arranged their pieces, both generally ignoring the advice of Harry and Arya who were looking over their shoulders, Arya insisting on playing the winner. Ned and Jeyne remained silent and sat in the middle. Sansa had no tactical experience and found she was more comfortable playing defensively. Sandor, for his part, tried to nudge her into opposition and eventually won when Sansa ran out of room to move. Sansa didn't mind losing. The game was fun and she was grateful for something they could do together.

 

Arya eagerly took Sansa's place and soon the pairs rotated as everyone had a turn.

 

"Was there any news from King's Landing?" Sansa asked her father as he frowned at the board. He moved a piece and then it was Sandor's turn to furrow his brow in concentration.

 

"Only that we'd gone and are presumed to be heading north. A small band of men have been sent after us, though I suspect Cersei will concentrate her efforts on Renly and Stannis."

 

"She might but Joffrey's the king," Sandor interjected.

 

Ned looked at his pieces as he asked, "How much control over him would you say Cersei has?" Sansa knew her father was not as nonchalant about his question as he appeared.

 

"Increasingly little," Sandor answered.

 

"The boy has been ill-governed."

 

Sandor looked at Ned for a beat before replying, "Aye, he has been. If Joffrey wants to send more men after us," Sansa noted the strange inflection he seemed give the word 'us,' "he'll find a way to do it. Cersei's grip on him has been slipping. The only one who can keep him in check is Lord Tywin, and he's no friend of yours."

 

"No, he's not," Ned agreed.

 

"Was there any word of our household?" Sansa asked.

 

Her father pressed his lips together before answering, "There was rumor of a slaughter."

 

"Not that it means anything, lit-, Lady Sansa," Sandor immediately interjected. 

 

"A slaughter?" Sansa pressed a hand to her chest as a flood of grief began to rise up inside her.

 

Sandor turned toward her and took her other hand in his. "It's a rumor only. Pay it no mind. More likely than not, it's a tactic to get Lord Stark to turn back and walk into an ambush. False reports are sometimes more useful than real ones in war. Save your tears, girl. They're not needed yet." He squeezed her hand and let go of it, and Sansa felt the weight of her father's eyes fall away from her hand just as much as she did the release of Sandor's fingers.

 

"What he says is true, Sansa," her father said.

 

"Was there news of my father?" Jeyne wanted to know.

 

Ned's face softened. "There were no individual reports, Jeyne. I'm sorry. I've sent a raven to Winterfell. If it gets there, we may have more news when we reach home."

 

Jeyne nodded sadly and wandered away from the table.

 

Since her father was discussing events in the capital, Sansa thought she might ask about something that had been bothering her. "Father, why didn't you support Joffrey's claim to the throne? It was . . . unlike you."

 

Ned blew out a breath and leveled a look at Sandor. "You didn't tell her?"

 

Sandor raised his eyes to Ned's and then lowered them again, advancing one of his pieces and removing one of Ned's from the board. "No."

 

"Your mother might be better able to explain - "

 

"Piss on that. She's going to hear it anyway. Might as well be from you."

 

"Thank you for your council," Ned answered sharply.

 

"Hear what?" interjected Arya.

 

"Surprised you don't know already," Sandor said with half a laugh, "Running all over the castle as you were."

 

"What is it? What does everyone know but us?" Sansa asked, frustrated that she seemed to be unaware of something that appeared to be general knowledge throughout the capital.

 

"I didn't support Prince Joffrey's claim because he is not Robert's true heir."

 

Sansa gasped as Arya screwed up her face in confusion. "How could he not be?"

 

"Robert fathered many children, but not Joffrey."

 

"Then who is Joffrey's father?" Arya asked.

 

"Father, why did you make a match between us if you knew I'd never been queen?" It was irrelevant now but, given the heartache Joffrey had caused her, Sansa wanted to know.

 

"Who his father is isn't important -"

 

"Jaime Lannister," Sandor interrupted.

 

"Ewwww!!!" Arya all but yelled. 

 

"No!" Sansa couldn't believe it. The queen was many things but to take part in such an abomination . . .

 

"Clegane, I'll thank you to let me protect my daughters from such -"

 

"Feeding them half-truths isn't protection from anything. Your one daughter was nearly queen yet you'd have half the realm be better informed than her -"

 

"Please! Don't fight!" Sansa was still reeling from the shock. The memory of being kissed by Joffrey's wormlips was doubly repugnant now. She felt tainted. "Father, how could you have made me a match -"

 

"I didn't know, Sansa, or I wouldn't have. Robert died believing that boy was his own. Once I found out, though, I couldn't allow him to take a throne he had no right to. Lord Stannis is Robert's heir. That's why I supported him."

 

"What about Myrcella and Tommen?" Arya asked.

 

Ned looked at Sandor, who simply said, "They're Jaime's, too."

 

Arya clucked her tongue in disgust.

 

Sansa felt truly sorry for them. "Do they know?"

 

"No," Sandor answered.

 

There was a moment where no one spoke. "How long have you known?" Sansa asked.

 

"Since the day he was born, though I suspected it before then."

 

"And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows?"

 

"If they don't, they'll hear about it soon enough."

 

"You don't sound like you care very much, after spending all those years protecting him," Arya observed with a faint trace of judgment in her voice.

 

"Joffrey has turned reckless and cruel but his parentage is not his fault. No one chooses their family."

 

Arya looked like she might have something to say to that but Sansa caught her eye and silenced her with a look.

 

*

 

Later that evening, Sansa sat with Sandor again at the table to play Cyvasse. Instead of sitting across from one another, they were nearly side-by-side. 

 

"You've been quiet, little bird," Sandor rumbled as they laid out their pieces.

 

"I don't know what to say. I know the Targaryens -" She shifted and her knee bumped against Sandor's. Sandor moved his leg so his knee maintained light contact with hers. She didn't move away. 

 

"I'm not talking about Joffrey."

 

"Oh." Sansa didn't know what he was referring to then. Little else had been on her mind that day.

 

Sandor stared at her for a second before looking down and nudging another piece into place. "You haven't said anything about your last night in King's Landing."

 

Sansa cast her mind back. The last night she'd been in King's Landing had been the night they'd left. She'd gone to bed only to be awoken by Jeyne. Then it hit her. Her last full night in King's Landing had been spent in bed with Sandor. He'd come to her and they'd - a blush began to spread over Sansa's cheeks - they'd been as husband and wife together. He'd pleasured her without taking her maidenhead, as he promised, and he'd helped her to satisfy him by guiding her hand over his - Sansa's cheeks burned a few degrees hotter.

 

"I've not forgotten," she said so quietly she could barely hear herself.

 

Sandor looked at her dubiously and grunted and Sansa knew it was not what he'd wanted to hear. It was true she'd not forgotten, though. She knew she'd never forget.

 

"It was . . .," she broke off in a nervous giggle. Doing it was one thing, talking about it was another.

 

Sandor looked at her from under his brow. Sansa knew she needed to relay her real feelings quickly. "I wish this ship was more private." She looked at him hoping he understood. "I miss you," she added on a breath.

 

Sandor's knee pushed against the side of hers as his eyes dropped down to the board, though he didn't seem to be paying attention to the game. Sansa nudged his knee in return. He shifted and brought his other leg around before bringing them together so her knee was between his legs.

 

"Not sorry?" he murmured as he tapped his catapult into a different box.

 

"No. It was wonderful," she said in a low voice, unable to stop a smile from spreading across her face.

 

Sandor squeezed his knees together and tried to pull her closer, a softer if somewhat mischievous look in his eyes. Sansa giggled and relished the feel of him. The sight of his naked torso was fresh in her mind and now, being touched by him, she felt tingly all over.

 

"You surprised me this afternoon," she said under her breath.

 

Sandor grunted. "You hardly play fair."

 

Sansa smiled and moved to collect one of his pieces, her fingertips brushing along the inside of Sandor's wrist as she did so. His hand moved as though it would hold hers but then stopped. The sun continued to sink in the horizon as they touched as inconspicuously as possible, the game all but forgotten.

 

Suddenly Arya appeared next to the table. "Whose turn is it?" she asked after taking in the disposition of the board.

 

"Mine," they both answered before sputtering out confused apologies and recounting bogus last moves.

 

Arya looked at them from the side of her eye as she moved away. "What's  _with_ you two?" she muttered before walking off.

 

Sansa looked at Sandor. She knew they should be more discreet but, compared with what she  _wanted_  to do with him, a few brushes of skin here and there felt like incredible restraint. As the sun sank lower, she slipped her foot out of her shoe and traced a lazy path up and down Sandor's ankle, hidden within her skirts. She knew he probably couldn't feel much of it through his boot but he'd stiffened when she'd first done it. He eventually reached down and squeezed her calf, dragging his hand down to her foot, which he also squeezed, before sitting up again. Moments later her father had come into sight and she felt the chill of nearly being caught. Ned had looked in on their game and they'd talked briefly but Sansa couldn't truly relax even after his departure.

 

Her eyes moved over Sandor's large fingers as he picked up a piece and his high cheekbones as he pretended to consider a move. A pang of want rattled her. A whirlpool of frustration seemed to be pulling her down from the inside.  _Maybe if I tell Father we've been more than friends, he wouldn't be upset. He and Sandor have been getting along well today . . ._  Sansa shook her head to dispel her crazy thoughts. Desire was making her stupid and reckless.

 

"You alright?" Sandor asked, glancing up at her.

 

Sansa just looked into his gray eyes, her lips parted. Everything felt muted and fuzzy. She didn't register much of anything besides a deep, instinctual desire to join with the man in front of her.

 

Sandor looked back at her. "Go to my cabin. I'll be there in a few minutes."


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa gathered up the game too quickly and ended up dropping pieces everywhere. Sandor squatted down to help her pick them up. "Slow down, girl."

 

A blush bloomed under her cheeks. Such eagerness wasn't becoming in a lady, she knew, but she was practically panting to be in Sandor's arms. She wanted to feel him in so many ways that her mind spun with the possibilities. She wanted to feel his rough beard on her shoulder as he lay on top of her. She wanted to press her soft breasts against the chiseled plates of his chest. She wanted him to draw her nipples between his lips and suck on them just hard enough to bring her sweet pain. His hands she wanted everywhere. She wanted his mouth on her, too. His mouth most of all. When he was done, his teeth could graze her ear as his manhood slid over her woman's place and,  _gods_ , she wanted whatever she could have as fast as she could have it. Low, common, wanton thoughts, all, but Sansa's hazy mind diffused her morals. She was driven by the ache in her breasts and the tremors along her inner thighs. 

 

"Don't be long," she whispered, half ashamed of her need.

 

"I'll give Harry something to do to keep him away from the cabin and then I'll be back."

 

"Shall I undress?"  _Please say yes_ , she thought. The sooner his skin was against hers, the better.

 

"No, let me do that," he said huskily. "We won't have much time but . . . you won't go wanting."

 

Sansa shoved the game pieces back in the bag and stood, aware of the moisture gathering between her legs. Her eyes met Sandor's one more time and then she turned and headed for the stairs down to their cabins.

 

Just as she was about to push the cabin door open, her father's voice reached her from the end of the passageway. "Sansa!" he called sharply as he approached her with long, even strides. "What are you doing?"

 

His tone stung and Sansa's heart fell clear to her heels. She had been so close. "I'm just returning Sandor's game."

 

"Is he in there?" Ned asked in what was not much of a whisper.

 

"I don’t -"

 

"Sansa, we  _just_  talked about this. Men like Clegane -"

 

"What do you mean, men like Clegane? Father, why do you insist on thinking the worst of him?"

 

"I insist on honor -"

 

"He has honor -"

 

"He abandoned his post -"

 

"So did you!"

 

"To keep you and your sister safe -"

 

"But we were only in danger because you supported Lord Stannis!"

 

Her father drew back as though she'd slapped him and Sansa was ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry, Father."

 

For a long, horrible moment, he didn't say anything. He just looked at her with incensed disappointment and it broke her heart. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

 

Just then Sandor entered the passageway, pausing for a second when he saw Ned standing with Sansa. Then he continued up the hall, his face free of expression. Her father turned and gave him a dark look.

 

"Something wrong, Stark?" Sandor asked, the barest hint of aggression in his tone.

 

"My daughter has just been demonstrating the influence you've had on her."

 

"She just saved your life?" he asked as his eyes flicked over to Sansa before returning to her father.

 

Lord Stark was not amused. "Enough, Clegane. I've tolerated your liberal speech and high-handed behavior for longer than I've cared to already."

 

"Look around, Stark. This isn't King's Landing -"

 

"Please stop arguing!" Sansa didn't want this moment to get any worse than it already was.

 

"Is that my influence, too?" Sandor glared at Ned. "Or just the things you don't want to hear?"

 

"Sandor, please stop!" If they continued to argue, her father might refuse to let her spend any time with Sandor and that had to be avoided at all costs.

 

Sandor held his tongue, standing as straight as he could in the cramped corridor. Sansa looked at him and her father. Both men were tall with dark hair and gray eyes and, at the moment, both had their jaws set stubbornly.

 

"I came to return your game," Sansa said, holding out the bag to Sandor.

 

"My thanks," he answered, taking it from her.

 

"It is inappropriate to ask Lady Sansa to enter your cabin -” Ned began.

 

"He didn't!" Sansa immediately cut in, seeing Sandor about to reply. “I just wanted to return it, since he was kind enough to get it for us all to play with. Father, you have to acknowledge how nice it's been to have something to do . . ."

 

"Sansa -," her father began.

 

"The girl's done nothing wrong."

 

"It's not your place to -”

 

"My place was in the throne room, slaughtering your men if you were fool enough to deny Cersei -"

 

"Enough!" Ned snapped. "The Lannisters may have put up with your insolence but I will not!"

 

"Even the truth is insolence when you don't want to hear it!"

 

"Father, please, he -"

 

"Sansa, this man doesn't need or deserve your defense. He's killed on the Lannisters' word and whored and drank on the Lannisters' gold -"

 

Sansa knew her father was angry now; he normally did not talk of such things in front of her.

 

"The same as your friend Robert," Sandor observed.

 

"You leave him out of this."

 

"By your reckoning, our offenses are the same. Only I didn't father any bastards."

 

Sansa's mind immediately went to Jon Snow and, by the narrowing of her father's eyes, she suspected his did, too. 

 

"Robert -"

 

"- started a war for your sister's cunt. Don't try to tell me any different."

 

"Robert had many faults but -"

 

"But  _his_  you overlook."

 

Ned favored him with a sour look. "- but you prospered well enough in his court."

 

"The Lannisters prosper no matter whose arse is on that throne, Lord Hand, but they don't spend their gold without getting something in return."

 

“I doubt it took much of their gold to get you to kill innocents -"

 

" _Innocents_ ," Sandor scoffed.

 

Ned curled his lip in distaste. "You have sins enough to atone for, Clegane, without disrespecting the dead."

 

"What do you know of my sins?" Sandor asked in a hard voice.

 

"You rode that boy down, for one."

 

Sandor turned aside and for a moment Sansa thought he would punch the wall. "Always back to that boy," he growled. Turning to face Ned again he said more loudly, "He was dead the instant Joffrey named him. Yes, I rode him down. I gave him a quick, clean death, which is more than he would have gotten from Cersei or the prince."

 

"He would have had a trial before the king."

 

"Why don't you ask your daughter how fair the king's trial was? Or do you like killing direwolves?"

 

“He had no choice!" Sansa felt obligated to say. She knew that terrible ordeal had bothered her father long after it was over, though he'd said little about it.

 

"And I did?" Sandor replied. 

 

Sansa wanted to be fair and loyal to them both but showing loyalty to one might appear to be withdrawal of it from the other and she felt trapped in the middle.

 

"Yes, you did! The boy was to be brought in for questioning but you chose to kill him," her father said.

 

"I spared him -" The corner of Sandor's mouth was twitching madly and his hands were clenched on his swordbelt. 

 

"Spared him! You cut him near in two!"

 

"You would have rather seen him hang?" Sandor rasped angrily. "Because a rope is all he would have gotten. You'd have had the boy's father stand witness to that? You think Robert, who was bored by anything he couldn't fuck, fight, or drink, would have wanted that tale traveling down the Kingsroad with him? To have every peasant scorn him even as they begged for his coin? I spared your friend just as much as I spared that boy. The people loved the king and hated his hound. Sneer all you like. It was for the best."

 

"The best, you call it? It was senseless cruelty. He was just a scared young boy -"

 

"Was he more afraid than that deserter of the Night's Watch? Oh yes, we heard all about your justice when we came to Winterfell. The great Lord Eddard Stark doesn't use a headsman. Too bloody noble for that. You executed a man for being afraid and yet you stand here on this ship and dare judge me? Lady Sansa's pet was no more guilty of attacking the prince than that boy yet you killed her just the same. Spare me -”

 

"It was an awful night!” Sansa cried. Her head was spinning. Each word they uttered hurt her deeply, as she knew, though neither would admit it, their words hurt each other. “The queen was most unfair. Truly, she's the one who should bear the blame. She and Joffrey."

 

"And yet Clegane was loyal to such a queen."

 

"Tell me," Sandor spread his hands wide, anger burning in his eyes, "how is the north not overrun with men seeking to be in your service if your retainers are allowed to do as they please?"

 

"You would be one of those retainers, if given the chance."

 

Sandor drew back and was silent. Sansa held her breath. The words dangled and twisted in the air like a body from a branch.

 

When she could take the silence no longer, Sansa said, “You’re so much alike, it’s - no, you are,” she added when they both seemed about to protest. “It’s terrible to hear you argue when you are both doing what you think is best,” she finished lamely, wishing she could make them each see the other as she saw them.

 

Sandor cut his eyes to her and her father opened his mouth to respond when the sound of whistling reached them from around the corner. Everyone turned to see the arrival of Brien, the first mate. Seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air, he said, "Lord Stark, Cap'n Dunellen would see you, if it please you."

 

Ned ground his teeth together but nodded his acquiescence. "Sansa, please go inside the cabin. I'll speak with you in a few minutes."

 

*

 

Upon her father's return, Ned crossed the room and bolted the door that joined the two cabins. Sandor was in the other room and she knew he'd hear the bolt sliding into place. It felt like a very public recrimination. 

 

Ned sat on Jeyne’s bunk and said in a low voice, "Sansa, you're not to enter Clegane’s cabin. Is that clear? He might take it as an invitation."

 

“You make him sound wild, Father. He can control himself,” she argued, though quietly. “He’s been alone with me before and has” – Sansa pushed away the lurid memories crowding her mind – “has always treated me considerately.” That was a half-truth. Sandor had often been aggressive, crude, and drunk when she’d first met him. Still, his recent treatment of her had been wonderful and she felt certain this was more true to his nature.

 

“He’s a flatterer, then. I wouldn’t have suspected it of him. Still, there's no end to the sort of tricks some men will use to cajole young women into . . ." He gestured vaguely.

 

"Into what?"

 

"Didn't your mother warn you  . . . she must have, growing up with Littlefinger . . ."

 

Sansa was not about to admit she was beyond warning. "She said she would explain everything when she came to King's Landing for my wedding."

 

Her father suddenly looked tired. “Sansa . . . you have a trusting nature, one that unscrupulous men might try to manipulate. Please listen,” he said when she made to interrupt. “I failed to guard you as closely as I should have in King’s Landing but I don’t want you to be unaware of the dangers of your position. You are the elder daughter of House Stark and for some men that’s temptation enough. That you’re beautiful like your mother will be further inducement still. Some men will try to charm you with compliments or tales of their own daring or wealth or worth. Others will bring you gifts and make you promises. The worst of them will use threats or force. I will do better at protecting you from them all.”

 

Exasperated but touched, Sansa said, “Father, you make every man sound like the vilest scoundrel. Surely there must be some decent men in the realm.” She couldn’t help thinking of Sandor.

 

“No man in a hundred will be worthy of you but I will not make you another match until I am certain of the man’s character.”

 

Sansa wanted to hug him.

 

“Still, I want you to be wary. It’s likely we’ll have visitors and guests at Winterfell and I’ll have to call my bannermen . . .” He trailed off and looked away and Sansa could see the strain he was under.

 

“I will be wary. I promise. But you should trust me, too.”

 

Ned nodded and stood. He crossed over to her bunk and kissed the top of her head before moving to the door. He muttered a few words to himself as he walked away but the only one she caught was “Cat.”

 

*

 

After her father left, Sansa lay on her bunk and listened to the ship creaking, her mind quickly returning to Sandor. Her body hadn't forgotten the pleasure it had been denied and soon the ache between her legs was almost painful. Sansa thought about satisfying herself but wanted to cry at the shoddy substitute her fingers would be for Sandor's. Still, the ache was a distraction. She tossed and turned on her bunk and could find no comfort.  _Best just to do it and get it over with._ Then, at least, her body could rest even if her mind continued to twist in torment. _I wish I could be with Sandor,_ she thought over and over. At last, though, the nagging of her body won out over the arguments of her mind and she slid her hand down towards her woman's place.

 

Then the door flew open and Jeyne came in. Sansa’s hand jerked and she hastily pretended to smooth her skirts.

 

"Oh, there you are."

 

Sansa struggled to sit up. Never had she wanted company less. "Are you not feeling well? Would you like some privacy?" She didn't wish illness on her friend but she desperately wanted to be alone.

 

"I had some ginger tea. It's helping."

 

"I'm glad to hear it."

 

Jeyne lay down on her bunk and after a moment asked, “How long do you think it will take my father to return to Winterfell?”

 

Sansa’s stomach froze. “I . . . I’m not certain, Jeyne. Of course we must hope for the best but if there was fighting . . .”

 

“I heard what the Hound said. It might be a false report. Willard says the Hound is a good commander as well as a fierce fighter so he must know about such things.”

 

“I’m certain his word can be relied upon. No one would harm an unarmed steward,” Sansa said in an attempt to reassure her friend.

 

Jeyne nodded and lapsed into silence. After a few minutes she said, "Do you think your father would take Willard into his service if he came north?"

 

Sansa suppressed a groan. "I think it would be unsafe for him to attempt to come north right now. He's sworn to the Lannisters, isn't he?"

 

"Yes," Jeyne answered with a pout before adding, "I'm going to send him a message when we reach Winterfell."

 

"Jeyne," Sansa said gently, "it might not be a good idea to send messages to the capital -"

 

Jeyne turned on her side and looked at Sansa. "Just one, to let Willard know I didn't leave because I wanted to, that it was all the Hound's doing."

 

_Why must everyone blame him for everything?_  "You should ask my father before you send anything. If the raven was intercepted . . ."

 

Jeyne seemed not to hear. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "I wish I was still in King’s Landing.”

 

Sansa sighed quietly. “You don’t mean that. It wouldn’t be safe.”

 

“My father and Willard would protect me.”

 

Vayon Poole was steady, kind, and intelligent, but he was not a warrior. Willard had acquitted himself well against Sandor and certainly seemed to care for Jeyne but there was no lack of skilled swordsmen in King’s Landing. Sansa struggled for something kind yet truthful to say. “I’m certain they would try their very hardest –”

 

Jeyne turned to give Sansa a look. “Just because the Hound himself has chosen to look after  _you_  doesn’t mean no one would protect  _me_.”

 

Sansa’s jaw fell open. “No, of course not! Willard is very capable and your father would know just want to do . . .”

 

Jeyne appeared slightly mollified by that. “He  _is_  very capable and my father . . .” She frowned and her brow creased as though she were trying not to cry.

 

“Jeyne . . .” Sansa was at a loss.

 

Jeyne rolled off the bunk and stood, avoiding Sansa’s eye. “I think I’ll go visit the horses. They must be lonely down there.”

 

“That’s a thoughtful idea,” Sansa murmured as her friend left the cabin.

 

Sansa gripped the edge of the bunk and blew out a breath as she gazed up at the ceiling.

 

“Are you alright, Lady Jeyne?” she heard Harry ask from the hall.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Jeyne answered in a high voice, her footsteps fading as she went up the stairs.

 

The door to the adjoining cabin opened and closed.

 

“Did you finish cleaning out the hold?”

 

It was so quiet that Sansa could hear every word, though she knew Sandor was not speaking loudly. It gave her a crawly feeling to realize that he must have been able to hear her exchange with Jeyne.

 

“Yes.”

 

The dull clunk of metal pieces being moved around could be heard and Sansa surmised that one or both of them must be cleaning armor. The sadness, worry, and tension they all felt was oppressive. Sansa stared at the floor, overwhelmed into numbness. Her eyes moved over the knots and grain of the wood and drew her mind away from her troubled thoughts.

 

Sometime later, she heard Harry’s tentative voice. "Hound?" 

 

Sandor grunted in response. 

 

"Am I to be Lady Sansa's squire, too?" 

 

"Ladies don't have squires."

 

"You told me to do anything Lady Sansa asked."

 

"I did but that was my order, not hers."

 

"I know but it looked like you were going to kiss her down in the hold so I thought -" 

 

"Can you swim, boy?" 

 

"No . . ." 

 

"Remember that before you say anything else about what you think you saw." Wood creaked as Sandor’s footsteps approached the door. “Finish the breastplate and then put all this away.”

 

Harry’s apology was muffled by the sound of the closing door. Sansa felt badly for him. He was truly alone of the six of them and now he’d incurred Sandor’s displeasure.

 

A part of her hoped Sandor was coming to talk with her but when he passed by her door without pausing, her disappointment cut all the deeper. Sansa looked at the moon through the porthole and felt how alone they were even as they were crowded against one another on the ship. _Seven help me,_ she thought.  _Can things get any worse?_


	18. Chapter 18

The next day and the days after that were an exercise in tedium. The gray sky and dark water surrounding them made it feel like they weren’t moving forward at all but instead were bobbing endlessly in an empty sea in a world that contained no one but themselves. No amount of walking the decks, staring at the horizon, or talking about events grown stale by lack of news hastened the endless hours of the day. Everyone was heartily sick of Cyvasse.

 

"Come on, Sansa!" Arya cajoled. "It's not like you have anything else to do! Harry said he'd try it and even the Hound said maybe . . ."

 

"Oh, alright," Sansa answered. She and Sandor had neither avoided each other nor spent much time together since his argument with her father days before. Things had settled into an uneasy calm. Like everything else, it seemed like nothing would happen until they reached land.

 

" _You'll_ like it. It'll be like sewing," Arya promised, her pleasure at her sister's acquiescence evident in the smile on her face.

 

Sansa followed her to the rear of the ship where one of the sailors was cutting off lengths of rope and chatting with Harry. Sandor was seated on a box of cargo, idly fashioning a piece of rope into a noose and slowly pulling the loop until it was snug around his hand and then sliding the knot down again to loosen it. When he noticed their arrival, he sat up and watched Sansa, shifting over to make room next to him on the box. Sansa sat as close to him as would be acceptable and was grateful his shoulders were so broad that his arm couldn’t help but brush against hers.

 

“This is Bill,” Arya said. “He’s going to show us how to make knots!”

 

Bill nodded to the group and handed each of them except Sandor a length of rope.

 

Sansa followed along successfully for the first few knots but the rough rope was nothing like her silken embroidery thread and it irritated her hands when she pulled it tight. Sandor seemed bored but was able to make each knot correctly on the first pass. When he was done, he’d help Sansa, often pulling her rope so tight that he then had to loosen it for her before they began their next knot.

 

“This way, little bird,” he murmured, coiling the rope and sliding the end through just so before looking up at her with a glint in his eyes. “Now you try.”

 

Sansa tried to keep her demure smile from breaking into a grin as Sandor’s hands guided hers through the movements. "Oh, I see where I went wrong now. Thank you."

 

“What are you two whispering about?” Arya demanded.

 

Sandor groaned and looked about to snap in response so Sansa said, “He’s showing me how. I had the end going through the wrong loop.”

 

Arya still looked displeased but didn’t respond.

 

Harry was frustrated almost from the start. He made knots aplenty but few of them resembled the intricate twists Bill was demonstrating.

 

"No, Harry, like this!" Arya said, slowly passing the end of her rope back through two loops she had made. While Harry tried to follow along, Sansa coiled her rope around her wrist and wished it was the bracelet Sandor had given her. She’d tucked it away with her belongings for safe keeping but she missed wearing it and looked at the rope wistfully. "Sansa! You're not even trying!"

 

"She already did it," Sandor said.

 

"Where's _your_ knot?" Arya challenged.

 

"I already know this one," Sandor answered with a glare.

 

"Pardon me for trying to give us something to do," Arya muttered as she angrily twisted her rope into a slip knot.

 

“Arya, we’re all trying the different knots . . .” Sansa said in an attempt to placate her.

 

“I’ll fix her later,” Sandor said under his breath.

 

Sansa turned questioning eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

 

"That’s enough for sail knots. I can show you some mooring knots," Bill offered, clearly uncomfortable with the displeasure of his audience.

 

“Would mooring knots be better than sail knots for keeping a shelter in place in the wind?” Sandor asked, drawing Bill into a conversation that kept them and Harry busy for the next several minutes.

 

Sansa moved to stand next to her sister. “This was a good idea. We’re learning a lot.”

 

“Nobody’s learning anything because nobody’s doing it right.”

 

“Everyone’s trying and Sandor has been able to do them all.”

 

Arya grumbled and yanked on the ends of her rope. Shortly thereafter the lesson broke up and Arya stalked off, Harry trailing after her asking if she wanted to feed the horses with him.

 

Sansa sighed. “It feels like we’re never going to get to White Harbor,” she remarked.

 

Sandor squeezed her shoulder. “It feels like we’re never going to be alone,” he rumbled under his breath.

 

They ambled along the deck, eventually encountering Jeyne coming up from the cabins.

 

“I was just talking with your father, Sansa. He said he’d think about letting me send a message to Willard,” she said, smiling. It was the first time since they’d left King’s Landing that Sansa had seen her friend look happy.

 

“You think he’s forgotten you so soon?” Sandor asked, amused.

 

Jeyne gave him a look. “I’m certain he remembers me,” she replied frostily.

 

Sandor smirked. “So you’re going to court him from Winterfell?”

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Send a flock of ravens to his door to keep the other maids away?”

 

“There are no other maids.”

 

“There will be if you keep reminding him of what he can’t have. Forget him. And let him forget you. There are plenty of eager foolish boys at Winterfell, the way I remember it.”

 

“I won’t forget Willard any more than he’ll forget me.” Jeyne tipped her chin up and looked at Sandor defiantly.

 

Sandor snickered. “You might like wasting away for love but I doubt he does.”

 

“What would you know about love?”

 

Sansa gasped but Sandor threw his head back and laughed. “The sea air has made you brave, girl.”

 

Jeyne seemed to take that as something of a compliment, squaring her shoulders before saying to Sansa that she would see her at the evening meal and walking off.

 

“You shouldn't tease her about Willard,” Sansa said gently. “Her heart is probably breaking."

 

Sandor snorted. "That’s not all. Haven't you wondered why she's here, little bird?"

 

Sansa stared at him. She hadn't, actually. She'd just assumed it had been a kindness on Sandor's part.

 

Smug amusement shown on his face. "Did you think I went to her first? No, I was going to wake you before going to your father. I found her sneaking back to the Tower of the Hand. _Carrying a lantern._ " He shook his head and laughed.

 

"Where -?"

 

"Where do you think?"

 

Sansa felt her face fall open in surprise.

 

"Believe it, girl." With a wicked look he added, "She should thank me for coming across her on her way _back_."

 

*

 

“Lord Stark,” Jeyne asked as everyone at that evening, “when will we reach White Harbor?”

 

“In several more days, if the winds stay with us.”

 

“White Harbor is an obvious choice,” Sandor said in a flat voice. “We should talk to Dunellen about landing somewhere else.”

 

“Where would you have us make port, Clegane?” Ned asked in an equally neutral tone.

 

“Are there any smaller ports nearby?”

 

“None that would hold a ship of this size.”

 

“Any tributaries where we could row ashore?”

 

“I’ve been thinking something similar.”

 

“Ramsgate?”

 

“Possibly. I’ve considered Weeping Water near the Dreadfort. I will need to speak with Lord Bolton anyway. If we landed there he could accompany us to Winterfell.”

 

“I don’t like Lord Bolton,” Arya said. “He has dead fish eyes.”

 

“Arya,” their father chided with a look. "Lord Bolton is a faithful bannerman of House Stark -"

 

“I know, I know!”

 

“Would Captain Dunellen be willing to sail farther north?” Ned asked Sandor.

 

“For enough coin.”

 

Ned thought about that.

 

Sandor added, “White Harbor might serve well enough if we landed at night, or stayed aboard until dark and then made our way through the city quickly. It’s the north but there are always nosey buggers in any port town.”

 

“That’s true enough. I'd like to be closer to Winterfell before our whereabouts become known.”

 

Ned and Sandor continued to debate the merits of various ports for the duration of the meal and it pleased Sansa to see them talking together as equals.

 

The evening air was mild and everyone seemed content to linger around the table, except for Arya.

 

“The crow’s nest is perfectly safe! Donal is up there all the time!”

 

“Arya, I said no.”

 

“But it’s the only place on the ship I haven’t been!”

 

“The _only_ place? I hope you haven’t been –”

 

“There’s nothing else to _do_!”

 

“Play Cyvasse . . .“

 

“No!”

 

"Seven hells,” Sandor muttered, standing. “Get that splinter of steel you call a sword off your belt, girl."

 

Arya eyed him, deep suspicion on her face. "Are you asking me to fight you?"

 

"No, I'm asking you to dance with me."

 

Arya frowned. "With _you_?"

 

"I'm not exactly useless with a sword, girl."

 

"You said dancing."

 

"Leave the dancing to your sister. Now get up."

 

"I don't want you fighting my daughter, Clegane," Ned interjected.

 

"Why'd you get her a sword if you didn't mean for her to use it?"

 

"She had an interest in learning and I saw nothing wrong with her being taught."

 

Sandor turned to Arya. "Did you have an interest in being good?"

 

It was no surprise to Sansa to see Arya's brow furrow at the challenge. "I'm good."

 

"I'm better," Sandor answered with a smirk.

 

"Clegane -"

 

"Seven hells, Stark, you'd have us all die of boredom? I'll leave her with her limbs - if she keeps them clear of my blade."

                               

Arya rose to her feet and, moving to an open part of the deck, assumed what looked to Sansa to be a rather graceful, if not martial, pose. Sandor moved to face her and, as ever, stood solid as a stump. Arya leapt forward and swung her ridiculous sword in an arc, still eyeing Sandor with suspicion. He knocked her blade away with a snort. "That's it? That's all you've got?"

 

Arya nearly lunged at him but held herself in check, seeming to focus her thoughts, the light shimmering off her slim steel. When she did move, it was with purpose and a target in mind. Sandor blocked her again and again, but didn't disarm her or prevent her renewing her attack. Sansa worried the rocking of the ship or the dampness of the deck would result in an accidental injury and, despite her faith in Sandor's skill, her heart was in her throat. Ned stood to the side looking distinctly displeased but eventually seemed to relent and called out a few words of encouragement and advice until Arya told him to stop.

 

Every now and again Sandor would surge forward with a flurry and Arya would press her lips together in concentration. He said nothing but he varied the speed and aim of his attacks, sometimes taking a slow swipe at her legs or forcing her to raise her sword arm up to defend herself against quick flicks at her face. When she showed signs of fatigue, Sandor took a defensive stance and let Arya set the pace. The sailors gathered around and cheered them on, delighted by the sight of a high born girl not only wielding a sword but doing so on their ship against the feared and vicious Hound. Back and forth they went over the deck, Sandor's economy of motion in sharp contrast to the flair and finesse of Arya's prettier moves. Sandor steered the duel toward the mound of cargo they'd acquired in Gulltown and pressed Arya back, not allowing her to move to either side. He raised his parries until Arya's hand was above her head and then he jabbed the point of his sword into her sleeve at the wrist, pinning her for just a moment to the wooden crate behind her.

 

"You yield," he said as he pulled his sword out of the wood.

 

Arya frowned but nodded as she huffed and puffed. Sansa knew if Sandor had kept her pinned there any longer, Arya's pride would have been wounded, just as she knew Arya would have collapsed of exhaustion before yielding of her own accord. No one considered it a loss, though. The sailors were enthusiastic in their praise, even including Sandor in their commendations. "Well done, Arya," their father said, drawing a smile from his younger daughter.

 

The duel seemed to cut through some of the impatience that had accumulated during their journey and they sat on deck together and talked late into the evening. Sansa looked around at her companions and felt a contentedness she hadn’t known since they’d left King’s Landing.

 

*

 

The next morning Captain Dunellen approached as they were breaking their fast with bread and tea.

 

“Lord Stark, we’re a day off the coast of the Fingers. Looks like a storm’s coming. Best see to your horses today and secure your belongings. Brien can help if you’ve got questions.”

 

Jeyne blanched. “Will it be a bad storm, Captain?”

 

Dunellen looked at her with pity. “It certainly will be for you, miss. I’ll ask Brien to see you’ve got tea.”

 

“Thank you,” Jeyne murmured, looking miserable.

 

Sure enough, the next day was overcast and the winds picked up, making the sails crack and snap above their heads. As the waves swelled Jeyne grew pale and clammy-looking. Sansa sat next to her on a bench and patted her hand, encouraging her to look at the horizon and talking endlessly to keep her mind off the waves. Eventually Jeyne felt so poorly she asked for Sansa’s help down to their cabin.

 

“I’ll bring you some tea, Jeyne,” Sansa offered after settling Jeyne on her bunk.

 

“Don’t want any,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut.

 

“I’ll look in on you a little later then.”

 

Jeyne whimpered and Sansa’s heart ached for her. As she went to look for Brien or Harry, Sansa came across Sandor and her father near the front of the ship.

 

“Jeyne’s sick again. I was going to bring her some tea but she says she doesn’t want any.”

 

“Tea won’t help. Not in a storm. Does she have a bucket ready?”

 

“There’s one in the cabin.”

 

“Won’t do her any good if she can’t find the target. I’ll rig it up for her.”

 

The three of them started for the stairs, Sandor grabbing some rope on the way. When they entered the cabin, Jeyne turned and looked even more green than when Sansa had left her moments before. Sandor knelt beside her and tied a length of rope to the leg of the bunk before attaching it to handle of the bucket. He made it as even with Jeyne's head as he could and then he tied the remaining rope to the handle and the other leg of the bunk. As he did so, Ned explained, “Jeyne, Captain Dunellen said we’ll be moving closer to shore. It’s possible we may escape the worst of it.”

 

Jeyne gave a tiny nod.

 

“Aim for the bucket, girl. It’ll move a little but at least you’ll know where it is,” Sandor said, standing.

 

Jeyne gave another small nod and closed her eyes, her hands clutching weakly at her blankets.

 

They took their leave of her and returned to the top deck where sailors running here and there securing cargo and inspecting rigging in preparation for the storm.

 

It began to rain shortly after the evening meal and everyone took cover below deck. The waves grew and it wasn’t long before Jeyne was sick. She missed the bucket once and the rocking of the ship sent the foulness running towards Ned’s blankets. He cleaned up the mess, quieted Jeyne’s apologies with reassurances that she was no bother, and opened the porthole. Everyone seemed to tacitly agree that the cold air was preferable to the smell.  To Sansa’s surprise, her father then gathered up his blankets and rapped briefly on the door to Sandor and Harry’s cabin before unbolting it and stepping inside. He made his bed in the bunk beneath Harry’s. A lantern was left burning, its greasy light too weak to see by clearly, yet strong enough to prevent sleep from coming easily. Sansa could feel Sandor’s gaze on her and she wondered if he could feel hers in return. Wondering only added to the length of the night.

 

*

 

The water continued to be rough the next day though the rain stopped for a time. Arya declared she could no longer take the smell and disappeared with a relieved-looking Harry to the horse hold. Sansa consoled the miserable Jeyne as best she could, helping her change into a fresh gown and taking her blankets away for cleaning.

 

Sansa found her father and Sandor talking again. They seemed to be debating the best way to leave White Harbor unseen but their discussion fell off when Sansa joined them.

 

"How's Jeyne?" her father inquired.

 

"She's suffering a great deal. I don't know what else to do for her."

 

"You've done all you can and more than most," Sandor told her.

 

"Surely there's something more . . ."

 

"Not unless you can calm the sea."

 

Sansa accepted that and turned her attention to the horizon as the ship rolled and her stomach with it. Far off in the distance she thought she saw land. "Are those the Fingers?"

 

"Yes," her father and Sandor replied together.

 

It must have been raining there, the way the clouds seemed to be smudged over the gray strip of barren land. It looked little more than a wasteland, deserted and hopelessly bleak.

 

"Lord Baelish was raised there? It's such a sad-looking place."

 

"Don't pity him, Sansa," her father said. "He found plenty to satisfy him in Riverrun and King's Landing."

 

Sansa didn't entirely understand the bitterness in her father's voice. Lord Baelish's manner was simultaneously off-hand and invasive but he had been a young boy once and she wouldn't wish any child to grow up in such a desolate place.

 

Eventually the rain she'd seen over the shore made its way out to sea and the cold drops drove everyone but the men tending the sails below deck. Jeyne was wretched and, to Sansa's surprise, her father allowed her to sit in Sandor's cabin, though he joined them. They talked of small matters but eventually lapsed into silence, the fierceness of the wind and rain and the rocking of the ship lulling them into quiet.

 

The closeness of the cabin, the surging tide, the burnt-oil smell of the lantern, and the sour odor of Jeyne's illness pressed against Sansa until she felt like she couldn't breathe. "I need some air," she murmured, gripping the bunk and taking uneven steps toward the door. Both Sandor and her father moved to join her but she said, "I'll just sit on the stairs for a moment."

 

Sansa made her way into the hall but something within her urged her up to the main deck. The wind was overwhelming, stifling her. She gasped and held her hand in front of her face until she was able to gulp down the rain-soaked fresh air, hoping to expel the acridness from the cabin air that seemed to have soaked into her blood and fouled it. Sansa staggered up the steps. _The bench. I'll sit there until I feel better._ She began to make her way across the deck toward the captain's quarters where a bench sat protected by an overhang. The heaving of the ship and the slickness of the deck made walking difficult. Sansa made to set her foot down but the deck fell away and she lost her balance, her knees slamming against the boards so hard she couldn't immediately get back up. The deck was cold and slimy and Sansa half slid to the railing where she pulled herself up. The ship climbed a swell and Sansa tried to hold tight to the railing, her palms sweating despite the chill in the air. She blinked as the ship fell into a trough and her stomach plunged with it. She tried to steady herself, to take a deep breath and reconcile herself with the rhythm of the waves but it felt as though something was fizzing behind her eyes. Without knowing how she got there, Sansa crumpled onto the bench, keeping as firm a grip as she could manage on the overhang support. Her stomach couldn’t keep up with the tossing of the ship, though. With a shaky hand, she pushed back her dampened hair and prayed for the motion to stop, the contents of her belly sloshing violently within her. A huge wave slammed against the side of the ship. Sansa hung on, expecting to feel a plunge. Instead, the ship rose so quickly it dizzied her and the clash of rising and falling, sinking and soaring was more than she could bear. She pitched forward and threw up with such force she couldn’t breathe. Sansa wanted to sob. Sailors scurried past her, looked at her, but didn’t stop. The ship seemed to spin and Sansa heaved again, the foulness diluted by the rain but spreading this way and that on the deck in front of her. The sight alone was nearly enough to make her ill again but then her eye fell on a figure emerging from the stairwell.

 

“Sansa!”

 

“Father?” she mumbled, sinking against the wall.

 

“Sansa!” The figure made for her, arms wide to maintain balance.

 

The boat fell down the back of another large wave and Sansa closed her eyes and clung to the wooden beam. An instant later arms were around her and she was pulled against Sandor’s solid chest. “Little bird! You weren’t on the stairs!”

 

Sansa couldn’t respond aside from pushing away from him. She opened and closed her mouth, struggling and failing to keep from vomiting again. Her tears felt hot on her cheeks as she spat and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, disconsolate that he had to see her in such a disgusting state.

 

He was talking to her, mumbling “it’s alright” and other things that seemed foreign to her situation.

 

“I’m sick,” she whimpered. She wanted to cry, to scream out her agony, but she was too weak to do anything but succumb to it.

 

“I know,” was all he said. He pushed her hair off her face and dabbed at her mouth with his handkerchief, his other arm pressing her tight against his side.

 

“Sansa!” Suddenly her father was kneeling in front of her. “Come back inside before you get washed overboard!”

 

The thought of breathing in the stench of the cabin was enough to make her gag. She shook her head. “No, please . . . please don’t make me. I need fresh air.”

 

Her father pressed his lips together. “I’ll sit with her,” Sandor said. Sansa closed her eyes; her brain swirling around inside her skull.

 

“I’ll check on Arya and Harry,” she heard her father say over the whooshing of the water all around them. She felt Sandor nod.

 

The rain lashed the deck, spraying them with mist. Each moment seemed to last an age. Sansa begged the gods for relief but none came. Another bout of sickness came over her so quickly that she threw up on Sandor’s leg and cried in earnest as he wiped it off.

 

“Little bird,” Sandor said at some point, his voice close to her ear. “We’re going below deck. You’re soaked to the bone.”

 

“No . . .,” she mumbled. She had no idea how much time had passed and wasn’t much aware of her wet clothing.

 

“Yes,” he said, standing, his arm around her so she was forced to her feet, too.

 

Even that simple motion set her head to spinning and she reached out for something steady to hold on to.

 

“Try to take a few steps,” Sandor shouted over the ceaseless pounding of the waves.

 

She tried. Her legs felt too weak to navigate the heaving deck and Sandor all but dragged her to the stairs and down to the cabin. It took her a long moment to realize he brought her to his cabin and helped her down onto his bunk. The feeble lantern light flickered, making Sansa blink and turn aside, even that slight alteration in her perception making her nauseous. Somehow she willed her stomach still.

 

“Here.” A flagon appeared in front of her. “Rinse your mouth. Don’t drink it.”

 

Sansa struggled up onto her elbow and took a little of the wine into her mouth. The sourness of it made her stomach lurch. Sandor rubbed her back and held up a bucket.

 

When the awful moment passed, Sansa collapsed against the bedding. Hours seemed to pass. “Where’s my father?” she eventually asked.

 

“In with Jeyne.”

 

The next thing Sansa was aware of was a pounding in her head and an aching stiffness throughout her body. The dull gray light in the cabin suggested it was early morning but she felt so weak and exhausted she could barely move to raise her eyes to the porthole.

 

 _Where is the porthole?_ Then she remembered she was in Sandor’s bunk and the porthole was above her, not across from her. She tried to roll onto her back but something was stopping her. Soft breathing and the musculature of the obstacle made her more alert than she’d felt in days. Sandor was lying behind her, his arm trapped under her ribcage, which accounted for that particular ache. Sansa looked around, confused. _Where is Father?_ Then she saw him in her bunk, asleep. She struggled to sit up and looked down at Sandor, his scars mottled by the relative darkness. An overwhelming tenderness for him nearly brought her to tears. _He took care of me._ But it had been more than that. _He made me feel better even when I was at my worst._  With a fingertip she moved a lock of hair off his cheek and brushed the backs of her fingers over his scars. He stirred but didn’t awaken. Sansa rested her palm on his chest and felt his heart beating, the steadiness of it even more gratifying after the chaos of the previous night’s storm.

 

 _I should brush my teeth_ , Sansa thought vaguely, aware that her breath must be beyond ghastly. Her mouth felt as foul as the floor of a raven’s cage and she was desirous of scouring it clean.  She stood up to walk to her cabin when Sandor’s hand suddenly closed over her wrist.

 

“Little bird,” he murmured, a faint, sleepy smile on his lips.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Sansa considered. “Better, thank you. Achy, but better.”

 

He sat up and drew her down next to him. Sansa glanced through the doorway to make sure her father was still asleep. “Please, I’m . . .”

 

“You’re better. That’s enough.” He pressed a kiss to her hair.

 

“Thank you for taking care of me last night. I’m sorry about your breeches.”

 

Sandor chuckled. "Wasn't the first time I've been vomited on. Doubt it will be the last."

 

“Did Father let you . . . ?” She couldn’t imagine her father agreeing to Sandor sleeping in the bunk with her.

 

“He fell asleep first. I was sitting on his bunk watching you when he turned in.”

 

“What if he’d woken up before us?” Her breathing quickened at how differently this morning might have gone.

 

He shrugged. “He didn’t.”

 

Sansa looked down and realized she was wearing a different dress than she had been. “Did you . . .?” She tugged at her skirt.

 

“No, you did. I waited outside with your father.”

 

“Oh.” Sansa didn’t remember getting changed at all.

 

“Do you feel up to eating?”

 

Sansa’s stomach felt spongy. “A little bread, perhaps.”

 

Sandor nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll have something brought up to the main deck. Unless you want to eat here . . .”

 

“I’ll come up, thank you.”

 

When he left, Sansa freshened herself up as much as she could. She longed for a bath but, still, she felt better than she expected to, despite the headache. When she reached the top deck, Brien was just setting a tray on the table.

 

“Ginger tea,” he said with a wink. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

 

 _I never want it to rain again_ , she thought but, “Thank you,” was what she said.

 

Sandor eyed the food and then looked at Sansa. “Start slow. I’m going to get changed and then I’ll check on the horses before I come back.”

 

One by one everyone but Jeyne made their way to the main deck. It seemed impossible that they were on the same sea. Whitecaps still butted against the ship’s hull but they were nothing to the pounding surf they’d endured the night before. Sansa drank a little tea and nibbled on some bread, which seemed to absorb the remaining bile in her stomach. The fresh breeze felt wonderful against her face and she breathed in deeply as her father, Sandor, Arya, and Harry tucked into the food, Arya asking Sandor when they could duel again. Captain Dunellen directed a few sailors to their cabins to give them a thorough mopping, to everyone’s relief and satisfaction. Sansa closed her eyes as the sun caressed her face. It soothed her and made her drowsy.

 

“Are you alright, Sansa?” her father asked.

 

“Just sleepy. I think I’ll take some food down to Jeyne and nap a little while.”

 

Jeyne was awake but still felt ill and wanted to rest a while longer. Sansa helped her into a new gown and urged her to have some food.

 

After Jeyne had a few bites, Sansa crept into her own bunk but thought about being in Sandor’s. She regretted getting up so fast. She should have leaned against him and luxuriated in the feel of his body against hers. Revolting as she’d surely been, she was touched by Sandor’s care. Not once had he treated her as though she repulsed him, even after she’d vomited on him. She fell asleep warmed by the tingly feeling of being accepted and cared for.

 

*

 

Later in the afternoon, Sansa and Jeyne sat on the deck and stared at the horizon in companionable silence. The sailors had arranged some crates so the ladies could sit with their feet up. They’d been plied with blankets, too, in an effort toward their comfort. Sansa felt remarkably better and she spent the time thinking about Sandor, blushing and smiling at her memories. She wished there was someone with whom she could share her feelings. No one would believe he could be so tender, so thoughtful, so . . . she sighed. So wonderful to kiss and feel and talk to and laugh with. It was a shame she had to isolate her knowledge of him from the rest of her life and it sat ill with her. Sansa glanced at Jeyne. Clearly things had gone farther between her and Willard than she’d realized. She knew Jeyne didn’t like Sandor but, maybe, given her feelings for Willard, maybe she’d understand Sansa’s own feelings . . .

 

As she was about to broach the subject, Arya came along and pulled herself up onto the crates. “Father said you were both sick last night. Are you feeling better?”

 

“I am, thank you,” Sansa answered.

 

“Much better, thank you,” Jeyne said.

 

Arya nodded and chewed her lip as she looked out at the water.

 

A gust of wind blew over the deck and Jeyne pulled a blanket tighter around her.

 

“Would you like another blanket?” Sansa asked.

 

“I’m fine. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

 

Sansa could see her friend was cold so she said, “It’s no trouble,” and made to get off the crates.

 

As she was pulling a blanket off of Jeyne’s bunk, Arya entered the cabin and looked at her suspiciously. “You must have been very ill last night,” she commented, her forehead wrinkled.

 

“It was just seasickness. It passed with the storm.”

 

"I suppose sleeping helped."

 

"It did." Sansa wasn't sure why they were still discussing her illness.

 

Arya didn’t look satisfied and Sansa realized she’d not inquired after her night. “Were you well? And Harry? I’m sorry the cabin was so . . .”

 

“We were fine. The horses were scared, though.”

 

“Yes, I imagine they were.”

 

Arya didn’t respond for a long moment. She just stared at Sansa with narrowed eyes and then, blunt as a tourney sword, asked, “What’s going on with you and Clegane?”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

"What do you mean? Nothing's going on."

 

"You're spending all of your time with him."

 

"I'm not," Sansa answered reflexively. "I spend time with Jeyne, too."

 

Arya rolled her eyes. "Holding her hair as she wretches isn't 'spending time' with her."

 

Sansa gave her sister a look and hoped she'd drop the subject.

 

"I'm not stupid, Sansa."

 

"I never said you were."

 

“I saw you last night.”

 

Sansa's heart stopped. "On the main deck? He sat with me because I was sick."

 

"No, I saw you in there." She jerked her chin toward Sandor's cabin.

 

Sansa could only stand there with her mouth open. No words of defense came to her at all.

 

"Or didn't you know?"

 

"Know what?" Suddenly Sansa's mind was racing. She didn't want to lie but neither did she want her sister to announce Sandor's actions to the crew in general or her father in particular.

 

"He was sleeping with you. Father was in your bunk, you were in  _his_  and he was sleeping behind you. He had his arms all over you, too." Arya curled her lip in disgust.

 

"I . . . I didn't know he'd fallen asleep there until this morning."

  
Arya's eyes narrowed. "That -" and then she said something so unladylike Sansa was momentarily stunned.

 

"I thought you were in the horse hold," Sansa said irrelevantly.

  
"I came to get a blanket and there he was, snoring like an aurochs." Arya watched her, clearly waiting for Sansa to erupt in righteous indignation.

  
"He was probably exhausted and just fell asleep."

 

"Why would he have been in the same bunk as you at all?

 

"Arya, I was so sick, he was probably holding a bucket for me. He tried to make me feel better."

  
"By groping you in your sleep?!"

 

"I'm sure he wasn't groping me!"

 

"He was all over you -"

 

"Arya . . ." Sansa looked around the cabin and hurriedly moved to close the doors. Her desire to unburden herself of her feelings was overwhelming in the face of this unexpected opportunity. Arya was not the person she would have chosen to tell but, lacking anyone else, she couldn't stop herself. Still, she tried to choose her words carefully. "He was very kind to me last night and . . . I care about him. And I think he cares about me. I mean, I know he does. He hasn't said so but . . . his actions . . ."

 

For a moment, Arya looked sicker than Jeyne ever had. Her mouth opened and closed and she shook her head a little as if to deny that it could be so. Sansa's heart sank.

 

"You care about  _him_."

 

"Yes." Sansa wasn't sure if she felt trapped or liberated by her admission.

  
" _Him._  The Hound. Joffrey's dog."

 

"Please don't call him that. His name is Sandor."

 

"Sansa, why? You could have been queen. You could still marry a high lord. Isn't that what you always wanted? The Hound is all scarred and ugly and . . . _landless_. Why would you bother with  _him_?"

  
"He's . . . Arya, I wish you knew him better. Hasn't your opinion of him changed at  _all_  since we left King's Landing?"

 

Arya pressed her lips together. "If you like him, I won't do anything."

 

"Please don't  _say_  anything, either! I told Father we're just friends . . ."

 

"You're  _more_?" Arya looked nauseated.

 

Sansa knew true ladies did not discuss such matters but she wanted to share her happiness. "Arya, he's . . . he's so  _. ._. He's intelligent and brave and  _honest_. He's so  _different_  than what I first thought he was. He can be very sweet and gentle and the way he -"

 

Arya pulled a face. "Alright. Enough. I don't want to hear any more of this."

 

"I know it's a surprise but please . . . Father nearly flew into a rage when I told him that we were friends. I think he only tolerates him because he saw Sandor stop Joffrey from attacking me."

 

"He does seem very protective of you," Arya said grudgingly.

 

"Yes, he is very protective."

 

Arya looked like she was going to ask a question but then the door opened and Jeyne walked in.

  
"Who's protective?"

 

Sansa's breath froze in her chest. She couldn't find anything to say and Arya's silence did nothing to ease the moment.

  
"The Hound?" Jeyne asked.

 

Still Sansa couldn't find the words but she noticed Jeyne looked both sad and put out by turns. "The blanket," Sansa mumbled. "I'm so sorry. You've been waiting."

 

"Neither of you came back so I came to find you."

 

"Well, here's your blanket," Arya said, taking it from Sansa and shoving it toward Jeyne. "We'll see you up on the deck."

 

Jeyne ignored her. "You were talking about the Hound, weren't you? I've seen the way he watches you. I'm not surprised you've earned his admiration. Half the realm is in love with you, after all."

 

"I'm certain that's not so," Sansa said.

 

Jeyne looked at her evenly and then turned away and walked out of the room, shutting the cabin door quietly behind her.

 

Sansa sagged. She didn't want to upset her friend but she was relieved that Jeyne had not heard her earlier, more effusive praise of Sandor. She looked at Arya, who looked back with an expression not untouched by pity.

 

*

 

The next day, during their midday meal on the main deck, Jeyne surprised everyone by volunteering to go with Harry after they’d eaten to tend to the horses. To escape the sun for a while, Sansa went below to the cabin, Arya trailing behind, tossing an apple hand to hand as they walked. Their father and Sandor were making plans for reaching Winterfell so they had the cabin to themselves.

 

Without preamble, Arya said, "Now that I know, it's obvious."

 

Sansa blushed furiously. "Please don't say that! No one can know!"

 

"It's only obvious when the two of you are together and there won't be much chance of that once we get home."

 

Sansa knew her sister was right but, still, the words bit at her heart. "No, I suppose not."

 

"Why did you tell me?" Arya asked. "I mean, how you feel about him. If you don’t want anyone to know."

 

"There's no one else I can talk to! I was going to tell Jeyne -"

 

"You shouldn't."

 

"I'm not, now, but I wanted to tell  _someone_. Arya, he makes me so happy!"

 

Arya struggled not to make a face and Sansa could have hugged her for it. "Are you going to tell Mother when we get back? If anyone sees what’s going on with you and Clegane, she will."

 

"I want to. It's just . . ."

 

"No one will be happy to see him?"

 

Sansa sighed. "Yes."

 

"And everyone will think he's a Lannister spy?"

 

"Do you?"

 

"No," Arya answered right away, which lifted Sansa's spirits a little.

 

"Why not?"

 

Arya shrugged. "He doesn't seem like he'd care enough."

 

Her assessment made Sansa uncomfortable and Arya hurriedly added, "I mean, about the Lannisters. To spy for them." With that she climbed up into her bunk and Sansa heard her crunch into her apple.

 

After a pause, Sansa asked, "Have you ever felt . . .?" For some reason, being unable to see each other made it easier to discuss sensitive subjects more freely.

 

"No."

 

Again Sansa wondered if maybe she should have told Jeyne her feelings for Sandor but her instinct was, no, she'd made the better choice in confiding in her sister.

 

After a long pause, Arya asked, "What are you going to do?"

 

"I don't know." Everything had been such a blur since Sevenmas, and especially since they'd left King's Landing, that Sansa hadn't considered much beyond the reception Sandor would receive at Winterfell. Her heart clenched at the thought of him being turned away, not only for all he’d done for her family but also for the man she knew him to be.

 

"Mother and Father will never let you marry him."

 

"I know."

 

"Do you  _want_  to marry him?"

 

"I haven't really thought about it. Lately my thoughts were mostly about  _not_ marrying Joffrey."

 

Arya grunted. "Only Joffrey could make the Hound look good." After a pause she added, "Sorry."

 

Sansa frowned but went on. “I’d just like to spend time with him without everyone . . .”

 

“- treating you like you’re wrong for wanting something that’s not really wrong at all?”

 

“Yes.” Sansa was surprised her sister understood.

 

“It’s the same with my sword,” Arya said through a mouthful of apple.

 

"I noticed you're wearing it all the time now."

 

“Mm hm."

 

"Where did you get it?"

 

"Jon had it made for me."

 

That took Sansa aback. "Why did you hide it?"

 

She could practically hear Arya shrug before she said, "Because I didn’t want to be told ‘no’ all the time."

 

Sansa felt a pang of sympathy. "It's just a sword . . ."

 

"So's Clegane."

 

Now Sansa really felt a pang. "He’s more. You know he’s more.”

 

Arya’s bunk creaked as she rolled and leaned over the edge to look down at Sansa. “No one else thinks he’s more. Unless they think he’s a drunkard, too.”

 

The injustice of that made something in Sansa flare up. “Father seems to be warming to him a little bit.” It was nearly a question.

 

“Only because there’s no one else to talk to.” Arya flopped back against her pillow and took another bite of her apple.

 

“That may be but Sandor knows the Lannisters and the court, and he’s traveled to Winterfell before. Just because the Lannisters didn’t truly know him –”

 

“Clegane only wants you to know that he can kill you. If he’s actually . . .  _nice_ ,” Arya said skeptically, “you’re the only one who knows.”

 

Warmth washed over Sansa and her chest and belly felt fluttery. “He  _is_  nice.”

 

“He’ll have to prove it when we get to Winterfell if he wants to stay.”

 

Sansa could tell her sister’s patience with the topic of Sandor’s personality was wearing thin so she asked, “Are you going to keep wearing your sword when we get home?"

 

"Yes. I want to practice in the yard with everyone else. I’m good now."

 

“You did very well against Sandor but one duel –”

 

“It wasn’t one duel,” Arya cut in. “I was taking lessons in King’s Landing. Father arranged a fencing master for me. Those were the dancing lessons you thought I was taking.”

 

Once again Sansa was surprised. “I wondered why you were so bruised! Are your lessons still a secret?”

 

“I think Clegane knows. I guess everyone else will figure it out.”

 

Sansa wrinkled her brow.  _How would Sandor know?_  “If Sandor does know, he kept your secret.”

 

Arya seemed to consider that. “I guess he did.”

 

Both girls were quiet for a moment. “Thank you for telling me. About your lessons, I mean,” Sansa said.

 

“You told me your secret first.”

 

“Arya . . . do you think I’m making a mistake by . . . continuing to spend time with him?”

 

“Mother and Father will think you are.”

 

“Do you?”

 

There was a pause. “I don’t understand it but I guess not.”

 

"Do you think it's wrong to . . . be affectionate with someone you can't marry?"

 

Sansa could feel Arya tense up. "You haven't . . . ?"

 

"No! He's just kissed me."  _Everywhere._

 

"What was it like?"

 

Sansa flushed. "It was very nice. He's -"

 

"I don't want to hear about  _him_!"

 

Sansa gave a tense giggle. Talking about this was exciting and embarrassing and  _new_. She knew Arya couldn’t give her advice based on experience but it was so nice to share her feelings with someone. “So you’ve never . . .?” she asked hesitantly.

 

“No!”

 

“It’s not a bad thing.”

 

“I guess not – if it’s something you  _want_  to do.”

 

“I do want to . . .”

 

“I thought you wanted to be queen or a great lady. Because you can’t be either if you keep kissing the Hound.”

 

 

“I did want to be queen, until I got to know Joffrey. Now . . . I’m not sure. I think I’d rather be happy.”

 

Arya jumped down from her bunk, her apple core in her hand. “Then I don’t think you’re wrong. But no one will care what I think.”

 

*

 

The rest of that day and the next, Sansa often felt Arya's gaze on her, particularly when she was with Sandor but, as her father didn't seem upset, she knew her sister had kept her silence. 

 

"Your sister keeps staring at us, little bird," Sandor remarked as they strolled the deck.

 

"Do you think anyone else has noticed?"

 

Sandor stepped in front of her. "That's your question? You don't find it strange that we're suddenly of interest to her?" His eyes bored into her.

 

Sansa stepped around him and he followed her to the front of the ship. Nestled in the narrow space, Sansa looked down at the prow cutting through the water. "I told her."

 

Sandor glared at the horizon before turning back to her. "I figured as much."

 

"Are you angry with me?"

 

Sandor took a breath before answering. "What did you tell her?"

  
"Well . . . I told her . . ." Her cheeks grew hot and she found she couldn't look at him. "I told her I care about you and that you . . ." Sansa's embarrassment was acute. How presumptuous she was about to sound! "And that you care about me." She stole a look at his face.

 

Sandor's expression didn't change. "Why did you tell her that?"

 

"She saw you sleeping behind me in your bunk."

 

Sandor turned away and muttered a string of obscenities.

 

"She said she wouldn't say anything."

  
"And you believed her? What happens the next time she ruins one of your dresses? You get angry and she tells everyone?"

 

Sansa didn't quite like the childishness that implied. Her voice was stiff when she answered, "I believe she'll keep her word."

 

Sandor snorted and looked away again.

 

"She knows how -" Sansa nearly said 'damaging' but quickly chose a more compassionate description. "- important discretion is when it comes to . . . something like this."

 

To Sansa's frustration, Sandor didn't turn around so she went on. "Don't be angry with her. I'm the one who told her the truth." Her insides squirmed a bit at that. Sandor had not confirmed that she'd spoken the truth regarding his feelings.

 

He did turn to face her, then, and said, "It was my own bloody fault for not sleeping in the other bunk."

 

They stared at each other for a moment. Sansa’s insides felt scrambled.

 

“And I’d do it again,” he added.

 

*

  

The next day, Sansa, Arya, and Jeyne were laying on their bunks playing a game in which each person had to name a place beginning with the last letter of the place just named. None of them was particularly interested in playing but entertainment options were few.

 

“Westeros,” Arya said with a yawn.

 

“Silverhill,” Jeyne responded dully.

 

“Lannisport,” Sansa said.

 

Heavy footsteps sounded in the passageway and then a knock came at the door. Sansa sat up and was almost hit in the face by Arya’s heels as her sister swung her legs over the edge of her bunk. “Come in,” Sansa said.

 

Sandor ducked into the cabin. “Lady Sansa. Come up to the main deck. I want to show you something. You, too,” he said to Arya and Jeyne. “You’ll want to see this.”

 

They went above and joined Ned at the railing. He looked almost happy. “Look over there.”

 

“What is it?” Arya asked.

 

Sandor leaned his forearms on the rail and squinted into the sun. Sansa looked out and saw the shape of land forming in the distance. "Are those the Sisters?"

  
"No,” Sandor said, “That's White Harbor."

 

*

 

They didn’t make port for another day, the wind being against them. Finally arriving in White Harbor but having to stay on the ship was a test of everyone's patience. Once again they sat and listened to the crew load and unload cargo above their heads. This time, however, they all sat in one cabin; Sandor and Sansa on her bunk, Jeyne and Ned on Jeyne's bunk, Arya on hers, and Harry on the floor.

  
"Father, can we stay at an inn tonight? A bath would be ever so nice." A soak and a scrub to wash away the dirt of travel would be more revitalizing than anything else Sansa could think of.

  
"No, I want to be outside of the city long before dawn. If we go to an inn, we'll be recognized." He didn't have to say which one of them was the most recognizable. "Is everyone packed?"

  
There were nods all around. They'd all started packing as soon as the harbor was spotted.

 

"Clegane, you and Harry will see that the horses are fed and our supplies are ready?"

 

"Yes," Sandor answered.

 

"I've asked Captain Dunellen if some food might be found for us this afternoon and he's agreed. After that, I suggest everyone try to sleep for a while. We'll be leaving well into the night and riding hard."

 

*

 

Sansa lay on her bunk for the last time and gazed at Sandor, the bright afternoon sunlight streaming into the cabins. He glanced at her father, gave her a half smile as he adjusted the pillow behind his head, and pointedly closed his eyes. Sansa sighed to herself. She watched his chest rise and fall and pictured the supple skin and dark hair that lay beneath his tunic. She resolved not to be frustrated. They were going home! Soon she would see her mother and her brothers and Sandor would be there and somehow it would all work out. Lulled by visions of a happy homecoming, she eventually nodded off.

 

Hours later, Sandor's voice was close to her ear. "Little bird, it's time." His heavy hand on her shoulder rocked her gently.

 

Sansa was so groggy she was sure she was dreaming and turned to go on sleeping. Suddenly there was a banging above her. "Let's go, she-wolf." Arya groaned and Sansa heard Jeyne get up. The next part of their journey was upon them.

 

*

  
The girls carried their bags down the gangplank, thanking Captain Dunellen and the sailors nearby on their way, and handed them to Harry who secured them to the last pack horse. Sandor was standing with Ned but, when he saw Sansa, he came over and took her by the elbow, guiding her toward Stranger, who pawed the ground and threw his head. Sandor lifted her into the saddle and then vaulted in behind her. They looked down and waited as the others figured out how to arrange themselves. With a taxed look at Sandor, Ned was left to direct the others and, in the end, he and Arya led the way with a pack horse on a guideline behind them. Jeyne and Harry were in the middle with the other pack horse tethered to them, and Sansa and Sandor followed.

 

They edged through the city, avoiding open squares and keeping to dark alleyways until they found their way to the northern gate. Sansa felt Sandor relax just slightly behind her as they went through it and she allowed herself to lean against him as they passed under the cover of trees and followed the road into the woods. The blackness was almost absolute, the lantern her father carried bobbling ahead in the distance, the horses picking their way carefully. 

 

"Hold these," Sandor said quietly as Sansa felt him nudge the reins into her hand. She took them as a reaction only, not thinking she had neither the skill nor the desire to handle Stranger. As soon as they were in her hand, Sandor's arms were tight around her, pulling her back against him. He curled over her with a soft groan, pushed her hair aside and kissed and sucked on the back of her neck. Sansa tipped her head down and closed her eyes, a sigh dying on her lips as a twig snapped somewhere in the woods. Sandor's hands slid up her abdomen and cupped her breasts, squeezing them just slightly too hard. She pressed back against him, feeling a large ridge with the small of her back. Sansa looked up and Sandor covered her mouth with his, kissing her hard despite the awkward angle. He broke away after a moment and she felt his hand over hers, taking the reins back from her. His arm kept her firmly against him and she felt his uneven breaths as he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

 

"Gods, it's a long way to Winterfell," he muttered.


	20. Chapter 20

Being back in the north was invigorating for Sansa. The cooler air seemed to awaken something in her blood. Her father wouldn't allow them to stop at an inn but they did make their first camp near a hot spring. Ned set Sandor the task of hunting in an effort to conserve the food they’d brought with them and, when he disappeared into the dense green of the forest, Ned gave his permission for the girls to bathe in the hot spring. Sansa and Jeyne flew to their bags, Arya trailing along behind them. Harry was asked to tend the horses in their absence.

 

Ned, Arya, and Jeyne stood with their backs turned as Sansa slipped into the pool. She washed as well as she could and even soaked for a long moment in the warm water, the weariness from a long day in the saddle seeping from her muscles. When she was done, she wound her hair into a knot on top of her head as Arya took her turn, and then Jeyne. It was wonderful to feel clean for the first time in an age.

 

Ned escorted them back to the camp where Harry had a fire going. The girls sat on their bedrolls, Jeyne in the middle, as Harry left to take his own bath. Sansa unwound her hair and began to comb it out, the heat from the fire helping it to dry.

  
Not long after, Sandor returned carrying a brace of rabbits, which he dressed, trussed, and secured over the fire, his eyes often rising to glance at Sansa, who smiled at him. When Ned went to bathe, Sandor just sat and stared as she brushed and braided her hair. Sansa saw Arya flick a look in his direction but, if he noticed, he ignored it. When her father returned, Sandor went to unpack his bag.

 

"The girls can sleep in the middle," Ned said as Sandor approached the fire with his bedroll.

 

Sandor nodded and placed his bedroll next to Sansa's before he left for the spring. Ned pressed his lips together and dragged Sandor's bedroll so it was perpendicular to the foot of the girls' bedrolls. He laid his own at their heads. Harry looked awkwardly at Arya and Sansa's rolls and unfurled his bedroll on the other side of the fire. When Sandor returned, he eyed the new arrangement silently, though Sansa thought she detected a trace of humor in his expression. He knelt by her to turn the spit and muttered something about a “losing battle.”

 

They ate their rabbits as the sun set and turned in early to the sound of the distant baying of wolves and a breeze in the leaves. They’d stopped briefly before daybreak to break their fast and rest the horses but at Ned’s insistence, they’d kept a steady pace until the afternoon. Despite thinking she wouldn’t be able to rest on the forest floor, Sansa quickly dropped into a heavy sleep.

 

*

  
They were leagues from their camp when the sun came up, Sansa and Sandor again taking up the rear. Sansa’s joy at being closer to home continued and she took deep breaths, Sandor’s tantalizing scent mingling with the forest air. As they bumped along under a canopy of leaves, Sansa began to hum under her breath, her tune keeping time with the swaying of Stranger's gait.

 

"Would you sing for me, little bird?" Sandor asked quietly.

 

Sansa smiled to herself and, just as quietly, began to sing, "Brave and strong and fair and true, all these things to me are you."

 

Sandor sat straight in his saddle, his hands on the reins in case Ned should care to turn around, but he squeezed Sansa with his elbows.

  
"My knight, my knight, my knight," Sansa concluded softly some minutes later.

 

His voice a little rougher than usual, Sandor rasped, “My thanks."

  
Sansa turned to smile up at him and saw the crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he dropped his gaze to hers for a moment. She faced forward again and felt Sandor's chest slowly press against her upper back and then the soft breeze of his exhale in her hair.

 

"Sandor?" she asked, feeling happy and content in his arms.

  
"Mm?"

  
"You make me want to sing without even having to ask."

  
Sandor coughed loudly. Harry turned around, concerned, but seeing nothing amiss, faced the road again. "You're killing me again, little bird," Sandor said in an undertone.

          

Sansa chuckled. "I am not."

 

"You are and you shouldn't."

 

"Why's that?"

 

"Because sooner or later I'm going to get off this horse."

  
Sansa grinned. "Then what?"

 

"Your father wouldn't want to know."

 

Sansa laughed quietly and turned to look at him again. The corner of his mouth was pulled up in a cross between a smirk and an attempt not to laugh.

 

" _I_  want to know," Sansa teased.

 

"Then I'll be sure to show you when we get to Winterfell. How does the main hall suit you?"

 

"It doesn't. I'd prefer somewhere more private."

 

"Such as?"

  
Sansa was delighted by his playful mood and strove to think of an answer that would surprise him. “Outside. Under the trees."

 

"You'd freeze."

  
"You wouldn't?"

  
"No. I'd be deep inside you."

  
Sansa gasped and Sandor’s raucous laughter burst forth, making everyone shoot questioning looks in their direction. Arya rolled her eyes and shook her head before telling Harry to pay attention to where they were going.

 

Sansa blushed deeply. She knew she shouldn’t be but she was excited by the crude remark. Her awareness of Sandor’s body so close behind her was suddenly acute. She leaned into him.

 

“There are trees enough here if you don’t want to wait, little bird,” he offered, his lips grazing her ear, a smile in his voice.

 

“It sounds like you’re the one who doesn’t want to wait.”

 

Sandor chuckled.

 

“We couldn’t anyway. Not here.”

 

“We could,” he said easily. “But only if you wanted to.”

 

Sansa shifted in the saddle, unsure of what to say. Sandor wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “Will you miss King’s Landing?” he asked.

 

Sansa heard what he was actually asking but said, “I would if you were still there but, no, I won’t miss it as long as Joffrey and Queen Cersei are in power.”

 

Sandor made an approving noise.

 

Sansa looked at the forest on either side of the road and the crisp blue sky above. The sights and smells, even the  _air_ , felt like home to her. “I couldn’t wait to leave the north when King Robert asked my father to be Hand. King’s Landing seemed so exciting.”

 

“You’d never been south of the Neck before?”

 

They began to talk about the places they’d been and the places they’d like to go and soon the whole world was at their feet. The day passed quickly and enjoyably as they compared their ideas and experiences. They didn’t agree on every point but neither did they argue. Sansa was surprised by some of Sandor’s opinions and he looked at her with amused perplexity more than once. They laughed often and freely.

 

Sansa thought she could talk to Sandor forever and never tire of it so she was disappointed when, the next morning, Ned insisted she ride with him. Jeyne had given a small but firm shake of her head when Ned had looked to her as a potential companion for Sandor instead of his elder daughter. In the end, Sansa and Ned led the way, Jeyne and Harry were in the middle, and Arya rode with Sandor at the rear. Only Arya didn’t seem to care about the new arrangements. She launched into a conversation about dueling as Sandor, stony-faced, dropped her into Stranger’s saddle.

 

“Father,” Sansa began carefully, “are you displeased with me?”

 

“No.”

 

“With Sandor?”

 

Her father stiffened a little but said, “No, he has been . . . He has not given me reason to believe . . .”

 

“He’s kept his word?” Sansa suggested gently.

 

“Yes, though we’re not at Winterfell yet.”

 

“Then why-”

 

“Liberality can breed entitlement.”

 

Sansa recognized the tone of her father’s voice. She knew his mind was made up and that he would brook no arguments so she did not try to convince him that Sandor had no thoughts of a claim. She did not want to miss an opportunity to see where Sandor was in his standing, though.

 

“Will you offer him a position at Winterfell?” She forced herself not to sound wry as she added, “If he proves to be loyal, that is.”

 

“He hasn’t asked for one.”

 

“Surely he could be of use, at least until Jory and the others return.”

 

“Time will tell, Sansa.”

 

Sansa let the conversation about Sandor drop and instead spoke of general matters. Half the day passed pleasantly enough, though so much time in the saddle was making Sansa tired and sore. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and see how Sandor was faring until, in the afternoon, there was a shout.

 

“Lord Stark!” Sandor called.

 

Ned and Sansa turned as one, seeing Sandor and Arya cantering towards them.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Take her.” He all but grabbed Arya by the scruff of the neck and held her out.

 

Ned stared at him, stunned. “What –”

 

“Let go, you big oaf!” Arya struggled in Sandor’s grip.

 

Sandor dropped her on the ground and dismounted himself. He pulled Sansa out of Ned’s saddle, placed her in his own, and then heaved Arya onto Ned’s mount.

 

They were riding past a confused-looking Harry and Jeyne before Sansa had time to take it all in.

 

“What happened?!”

 

“Damn girl talks too much.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Us.”

 

“Us?” Arya’s lack of restraint surprised her.

 

“Yes,  _us_.”

 

Sansa remained silent until she felt Sandor had calmed down. When he stopped muttering unpleasantries under his breath, she said, “What did she say?”

 

“She argued with me over the Braavosi style of fighting.”

 

Sansa’s brow wrinkled.  _What?_  “I don’t understand why that –”

  
“Damned lot of swishing and dancing,” he rumbled.

 

Sansa thought back over her own lessons with Sandor. “Surely it’s meant for distraction and to take advantage of one’s speed . . .”

 

Sandor hmphed. “Dancing never killed anyone.”

 

“Not everyone is as strong as you. If they have to use  _swishing and dancing_  to gain an advantage than the Braavosi style may serve them well,” Sansa said.

 

Sandor sat in an irked silence so Sansa continued. “What else did she say?”

 

“She asked if Beric bloody Dondarrion had found my brother yet.  _Yet_. Why would he even be  _looking_  for  _Ser_  Gregor? If I ever thought your head was filled with songs, hers is stuffed with nonsense.”

 

Sansa frowned. Ser Gregor was a nightmare grown large. She’d been at court when her father had sent Ser Beric and others after him for raiding the Riverlands. She was surprised Sandor hadn’t heard but then she remembered her father had left for the hunt shortly thereafter. “I’m afraid she’s right.”

 

Sansa felt a tremor of rage course through him. When it passed, Sandor leaned to the side to see her face, his heavy brow pulled down as he regarded her. “Explain.”

 

She did and, when she finished, Sandor didn’t reply. “I’m sorry you weren’t told. You’d be head of Clegane Keep, after all, and –”

 

“I wouldn’t have wanted the Keep then and I doubt Tywin Lannister would see fit to let me inherit it now.”

 

“But you should have been told.”

 

“It would have been a _courtesy_.”

 

The matter seemed easy enough to resolve. “Talk to my father. He gave the order. I’m sure he’d be willing to discuss it with you.”

 

Sandor huffed out a breath but made no further reply so Sansa said gently, “But that has nothing to do with  _us_. What did Arya say about you and me?”

 

Sandor answered in a stiff voice. “She wants me to give her lessons with a dagger, like I gave you.”

 

“Did you agree?”

 

“I said I might, if there’s time and your father doesn’t have me arrested at Winterfell’s gate. Or send for my head,” he added through gritted teeth.

 

Sansa decided to ignore that. “That was very kind of you and I’m sure she was pleased but that can’t have been all . . .”

 

“She said I look at you a lot.”

 

Sansa smiled to herself. “She’s not entirely wrong, is she?”

 

“She hinted I look at you too much. She would have started telling me how to be more cautious if I hadn’t gotten rid of her when I did.” He bristled and Sansa could see his grip on the reins tighten.

 

“I’m sorry you had such a difficult ride with her.”

 

Sandor snorted.

 

Sansa patted his thigh and turned to look up at him. His face was dour and Hound-like. “She was just trying to make conversation.”

 

Sandor gave her a dampening look.

 

“You would have been irritated if she’d offered you nothing but empty courtesies, too.”

 

“Don’t make me drag your sister back over here, girl.”

 

“If you do, I won’t be able to tell you what my father and I talked about.”

 

“He has opinions on how much I look at you, too?” Sandor muttered testily.

 

“ _No_ , I asked if he plans to offer you a position at Winterfell.”

 

She felt Sandor become more alert.

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He said you haven’t asked for one. Will you?”

 

Sandor was quiet so long that Sansa wasn’t certain he would answer. When he did, all he said was, “I don’t know.”

 

Sansa nearly asked him what would prevent his staying but then decided she might not like the answer and, so, said nothing. She leaned back into him, shifting to make herself comfortable against his armor. He moved his left arm to make more space for her but something kept poking her in the back. She pulled his cloak aside and there, inside, still, was her direwolf pin.

 

*

 

The next morning, Ned said, "Clegane, why don't you lead?"

 

"I don't know the way. You're the northman, Stark."

  
"Just follow the road."

 

Sansa was once again seated in front of Sandor. She couldn't get comfortable and initially thought it was because her father might see if Sandor touched her, which he didn't.

 

“Something wrong?” Sandor asked when she kept squirming.

 

“It’s my back. I’m not used to sleeping on the ground yet, I suppose.”

 

Eventually the jostling bothered her belly, too, and her discomfort demanded that she ask Sandor if they could stop.

 

Sandor halted their little caravan and various parties slipped into the woods to make water. Sansa hitched up her skirts and squatted by a tree, doing a double-take when she saw her smallclothes dotted with red. "Oh, no!" she murmured, unaware she spoke the words aloud.

 

"Little bird?" came an immediate reply from nearby.

 

Sansa stared at the blood and cringed.  _What am I going to_ do??

 

"Answer me!"

  
"Just a . . . I'm fine! I -"

  
"Where are you?"

  
Sansa rapidly adjusted her clothing and stood, answering, "Over here."

  
Almost instantly Sandor appeared. "What's wrong?" he said, looking around.

  
Sansa wanted to disappear. Sandor knew she was a woman, of course; had had her naked in his arms and made her cry out her pleasure at his touch but this was not something she wanted to share with him. Her face began to burn.

 

"Are you ill?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and looking her over.

 

"No," she answered feebly, wishing the ground would swallow her up.

 

Sandor cast suspicious glances over the surrounding trees and shrubs. "Did you see someone?"

 

“No. Everything's fine."

 

"Everything's not fine. You said, 'Oh no.' I heard you. Now tell me what's going on.”

  
Sansa couldn't think of a vague enough euphemism. "I need some supplies."

 

"You know where the horses are. Don't tell me you got lost two steps into the woods."

  
Sansa looked over her shoulder, wishing Jeyne or Arya would appear so she wouldn't have to explain.

 

Sandor stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  
"I need some  _woman's_  supplies," Sansa mumbled toward her feet.

 

Sandor's spine snapped straight and he looked around, too. "Tell me what to do."

  
"Find Jeyne?"

  
Sandor nodded vaguely and tramped off, leaving crushed plants and flattened undergrowth in his wake.

 

Endless moments later, Jeyne arrived, looking confused. "Are you alright? The Hound returned saying something about bringing you what you need."

 

Sansa hastily explained her predicament and Jeyne shared her horror.

  
"I don't have anything with me!" moaned Sansa. She didn't want to sound accusing, since Jeyne had done most of her packing for her, and it had simply not occurred to Sansa to prepare for this eventuality.

 

"I can give you what I have but I'll certainly need it before we reach Winterfell."

  
"I don't want to leave you without. I'll have to cut up one of my dresses tonight but how can I do that without my father noticing?"

 

Jeyne looked at her sympathetically. "I'll be right back."

 

"Be discreet!" Sansa implored as she left.

 

"Of course!"

 

Sansa was in a flutter. Their stops on the road had so far been very short and this lengthy delay would surely excite notice. Such subjects were not discussed by well-bred ladies in front of men and now Sandor already knew and soon her father and Harry would, too. Her cheeks flushed and embarrassment oozed over her.

 

Jeyne returned, extracted the cloths from the bodice of her gown, and left Sansa to tend to herself, which she did as quickly as possible. Her face aflame, she returned to the road, trying to slink back as though everyone wasn't waiting for her.

 

"Sansa? Are you well?" her father asked.

 

"Yes!" she answered in an unnaturally high voice. She walked quickly over to Stranger, avoiding Sandor's eye, and was mortified to see he'd placed a blanket in the saddle.

 

"Alright?"

 

"Yes!"

 

He lifted her into the saddle as though she were made of glass. "I'll put Harry on a pack horse and ride with Jeyne if you want the saddle to yourself."

 

Would the embarrassment never end? "That's thoughtful of you but not necessary. I thank you."

 

Sandor looked at her from under his brow before hoisting himself into the saddle behind her. Sansa sat straight, wondering if Sandor shared her unease. After a short while, Sandor muttered in her ear, "Relax, little bird."

 

Sansa leaned back a bare fraction of an inch.

 

Sandor pulled her against him. "Do you feel sick?"

 

“Not exactly.”

 

"Then how do you feel?" he asked, his breath against the side of her face.

 

Sansa was touched by his concern. "My back hurts."

 

"Where?"

 

“Low."

 

"Hold the reins."

 

"My father will see."

 

Sandor spread his cloak over Stranger's flank. "Not from back there."

  
Sansa took the reins and Sandor gripped her waist and pressed his thumbs into her lower back, making deep circles. It felt so wonderful that in spite of herself, Sansa sighed and let her head tip back to rest against his shoulder.

 

"Better?"

  
She smiled up at him. "Yes."

  
Sandor continued to massage her lower back as they rode along. After a while Sansa thanked him, thinking his hands must be tired, even though she would have been happy to let him continue on forever. He gingerly wrapped his arms around her, holding her hands and the reins together, Sansa nestled in his embrace.

 

The blanket under her bottom was a help but the long hours in the saddle were uncomfortable and the cramps she'd felt earlier were becoming a deeper ache. She tried to make herself comfortable but instead accomplished little except bumping into Sandor again and again.

  
"Do you want to stop?"

 

"No. I've drawn enough attention for one day."

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"My stomach."

 

Sandor began to rub circles over her stomach but too high. Sansa placed her hands on top of his and pushed them lower on her belly, holding them there. He tried to rub her again but she gave a small shake of her head.

 

His large hands all but covered her belly. The warmth of them seeped into her and eased her discomfort. Sandor bent his head and pressed a kiss against her temple. "Thank you," Sansa murmured.

 

Sandor chuckled under his breath. "You don't ask much."

 

That reminded Sansa. "I do have something to ask."

 

"Mm?"

 

"Could I borrow your knife? My dagger is packed."

 

“Why would –”

 

“It just is!”

 

"Why do you want my knife?"

 

"I need to cut up one of my dresses . . ."

 

"Don't do that."

 

"I have to."

 

"I'll think of something."

 

*

 

That afternoon Sandor insisted they camp near a village.

 

“We should remain hidden for as long as we can,” argued Ned.

 

“We need news,” Sandor said flatly. “Harry, go into the village and buy some supplies. Talk to the people. Don’t you mention us, but if  _they_  do, say you heard we headed for the Dreadfort. Make sure you’re not followed when you leave. In fact, head east when you’re done and circle back here. Understand?”

 

“Yes,” Harry said, his eyes wide.

 

After everyone dispersed and began making camp, Sandor pulled Harry aside and dropped some coins in his hand. Under his breath he directed, “Buy some food and wine but not so much as to draw notice.”

 

“Yes, Hound.”

 

“Make sure you come back with a few lengths of clean cloth, too.”

 

“What kind of –”

 

“It just has to be clean.”

 

Harry’s eyebrows drew together but he nodded.

 

“Go now. And don’t look like you’re in a hurry.”

 

“Yes, Hound,” Harry answered. He retrieved his bag from one of the pack horses and left.

 

Sandor turned and seemed only then to realize Sansa was standing close by. She gave him a wobbly smile of gratitude that he pretended not to see.

 

*

 

The sun sank in Harry’s absence and they eventually ate without him. At full dark, a wolf bayed at the moon, followed by a chorus of howling.

 

“They’re far away, Jeyne,” Ned said when she jumped. Jeyne nodded and continued eating but her eyes scanned the darkness.

 

Awhile later, as Ned and Sandor were brushing down the horses, Jeyne said in an undertone to Sansa, “Come with me, please. I have to make water.”

 

Sansa nodded and rose. She was grateful for the opportunity to slip some more of Jeyne’s cloths into her pocket.

 

“I’ll come, too,” said Arya, and the three of them walked past the men and horses and into the darkness.

 

Thinking she might take longer, Sansa didn’t venture quite as far as Arya and Jeyne did. She was surprised when she heard her father address Sandor.

 

“Are you certain Harry will be able to find his way back?”

 

“Yes,” answered Sandor shortly.

 

“I’m not questioning your order, Clegane.”

 

There was a pause and then Sandor said, “Lady Arya told me you gave an order to Beric Dondarrion to bring you my brother’s head.”

 

“I did, for his crimes against the king’s subjects in the Riverlands.”

 

Sandor didn’t reply and Ned went on, sounding curious. “Why ask about that now?”

 

“It was the first I’d heard of it.” Sansa noted the restraint in Sandor’s voice and crept forward to where she could see them.

 

“Cersei didn’t tell you?”

 

“No.” Sandor glared at the brush he was pulling over Stranger’s coat.

 

Ned looked at him with dawning realization. “Robert was to tell you but then decided to let Cersei bear the tidings.”

 

“You might have sent me.”

 

“You had a duty to the prince, though Lord Baelish did suggest you might take it ill –”

 

“Lord Baelish.” Sandor spat into the dirt.

 

“Well, we can agree on that. If it offers you any consolation, the last I’d heard from Lord Beric, he had not yet succeeded in finding your brother.”

 

“Finding him will be easier than killing him.”

 

“If you wanted him dead, you could have killed him yourself during the tourney.”

 

“When I kill Gregor, I want him to know why, and it won’t be because the Tyrell boy is a fool.”

 

“We’re not that far from the Riverlands now –”

 

Sansa heard Arya and Jeyne coming back so she stepped out of the trees and neither Sandor nor her father said another word. They finished with the horses and joined the girls around the fire.

 

Another hour had gone by when Arya said to Sandor, “You shouldn’t have sent Harry to the village alone. He’s afraid of everything.”

 

Sandor turned toward her with a scowl but Ned said, quietly, “Hush, Arya.”

 

Just then a crunching was heard at a distance.

 

“Wolves?” Jeyne asked, nervously eyeing the dark.

 

“Harry,” Sandor said irritably. “The men on the Wall are probably wondering what all the noise is.”

 

It was long minutes before Harry actually appeared, out of breath and distraught. He took a great gulp of air before gasping out, “They’re in the village! They’re looking for us!”


	21. Chapter 21

Jeyne dove for her belongings and Sansa and Arya quivered on the verge of motion but Sandor stood and held up a hand, stilling them all. “ _Who_ is looking for us?”

 

“Tell us what you saw,” added Ned.

 

Harry gulped down some air. "There were men there. At the inn. Not Lannisters but their men.”

 

"Did you speak with them?" Ned asked.

 

"No, m’lord, I asked the barkeep at the inn what they were doing this far north."

 

Sandor nodded approvingly, though Sansa thought she saw strain in the way his eyes narrowed just a bit. "What did the barkeep tell you?

 

Harry looked miserable. "He said they'd come from White Harbor after receiving a raven. They're looking for Lord Stark.”

 

“What of Clegane?” Ned asked.

 

“The barkeep didn’t say anything about him, m’lord, but the men did. They were arguing about you,” he said, looking at Sandor. “One kept saying how you were probably looking for Lord Stark yourself, probably under special order from the queen or prince. Another thought they should look for you, too, to bring you in or follow you to Lord Stark. Another said there was no reward in finding you, only steel.”

 

Sandor snorted. “How many of them were there?”

 

“Five.”

 

“Squires?”

 

“None in the inn.”

 

“Are they staying there?”

 

“They are tonight, from the sound of it.”

 

Sandor nodded. “Well done, boy.

 

Harry wilted in relief.

 

“We should head east,” Ned said.

 

“We should kill them.”

 

“Who would have cause to attack them besides us? Their bodies would only announce our presence. We can keep to the trails. It's unlikely they're going to Winterfell.”

 

"Do you want to spend the rest of this trip looking over your shoulder? If they're dead, we'll know right where they are."

 

"If they're dead, people will know where _we_ are and I'd rather get to Winterfell undetected. It'll be safer for the girls."

 

“I want to get a look at them.”

 

“Then you’ll go alone.”

 

Sandor’s eyes flicked over to Sansa. “Let them go and they'll find us eventually. Five to two, Stark, plus four of them to look after?” He nodded towards Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, and Harry. "We know where they'll be sleeping tonight. It'll never be easier to rid ourselves of them."

 

Ned gave Sandor a smothering look. “No." When Sandor didn't argue, he went on. "We’ll head east and avoid the main roads. They'll assume we're coming up the kingsroad or sailing into White Harbor. No one will think we’re coming from the east.”

 

Sandor scowled but after a long moment said nothing other than, “Harry, start packing the horses.”

 

The camp was disassembled, the fire put out, and the horses loaded faster than Sansa would have thought possible. In the next instant, she was atop Stranger, swaying through the darkness with Sandor at her back.

 

*

 

Sansa felt like their every step was being tracked as they made their way through the trees. She understood why they'd left King's Landing but being so close to men who'd try to apprehend them made their danger seem real and she was terrified.

 

They made camp again a few hours later. They walked well off the trail and into a dense stand of pine trees. The ground had a soft bed of needles and the low, close branches were somewhat comforting in the lantern light, though they'd be defenseless if men suddenly walked through the trees.

 

“Father?” she asked quietly as everyone was retrieving their bedrolls. “We can’t see the rest of the woods from here.”

 

“No, but neither can we be seen,” he said hearteningly.

 

“The girl’s right,” Sandor put in quietly, an edge of pride in his voice. “We should take shifts tonight.”

 

“No! Then you’ll both be tired and if we were to be found . . .” It was an idea too horrible to put into words.

 

“Sunrise is in a few hours, Lady Sansa. If your father agrees, we can both get a couple hours of sleep.”

 

Ned didn't look pleased but he agreed.

 

“I’ll take the first shift,” said Sandor. He sat down on an outcropping of rock near the edge of the ring of trees and set the lantern beside him.

 

Sansa laid down on her bedroll near Sandor’s feet. When everyone was settled, Sandor extinguished the light. The others fell asleep quickly, the soft gusts of their breathing mingling with the chirp and buzz of insects, the rustle of animals passing over leaves on the forest floor, and the cries of wolves.

 

“Sandor?” Sansa whispered.

 

“Hm?” He sat down next to her with his back against the rock.

 

"Do you think they'll find us?" The idea sent a chill through her stomach.

 

"I'll kill them if they do." He found her hand and squeezed it.

 

"I know, but do you think they'll find us?"

 

"If they have more than salt for brains, they will."

 

Sansa frowned.

 

He added, "But they probably won't. They were north already, which means they weren't with the Lannisters' main guard, which means they weren’t needed and are likely even more worthless than usual. If they had any value, they would have been in King's Landing."

 

Sansa nodded despite knowing he couldn’t see her and ran her fingertips back and forth over his knuckles, worrying.

 

“Listen, girl. Harry said they were arguing. They don’t have a plan. They don’t have a leader. It’s unlikely they’ll get far.”

 

“I'm sure you're right.”

 

“I’ll keep you safe.”

 

“Keep _watch_ , please,” Ned said in a quiet but tight voice.

 

“Sorry, Father.” Sansa quickly reviewed what she and Sandor had just said and felt relieved that there was nothing likely to cause her father distress.

 

Sandor brushed a quick kiss over the back of her hand before rising and stepping out of the enclosure of trees. Sansa listened as he made a circle around their camp. For a brief while, she felt the consciousness of both Sandor and her father, and then the late hour and excitement of the day pulled her into sleep.

 

*

 

The next morning they prepared to go farther east. The sky was like tarnished steel and drips of rain were making their way through the leaf cover. The wind was getting stronger and Sansa’s skirts flapped around her legs.

 

"Get your dagger out, girl," Sandor muttered as they were packing up.

 

Sansa nodded and rummaged through her bag for it. She quickly tied the cord around her waist and slid the sheathed blade into her pocket. She felt calmer than she had the night before but the weather made her edgy and she was eager to put distance between them and the village.

 

The morning was long and damp and everyone seemed lulled by the dullness of the day. Sandor wrapped them both in his cloak as well as he could and held her close. They were picking their way along a creek bed when, above and at some distance, they heard a sharp voice call, “Lord Stark! Stop by order of the king!”

 

A scream rushed up Sansa’s throat but Sandor clapped a hand over her mouth.

 

“Do I look like Lord Stark?” a rough voice answered.

 

Everyone looked at everyone else, wide-eyed. Sandor threw himself out of the saddle with Sansa in his arms and immediately dragged Stranger deeper into the trees. He and Ned secured the horses quickly and made to follow the voices, Ned saying, “Stay here.”

 

“No!” Sansa and Arya both replied. Sansa did not want to be left behind, wondering who would be coming through the trees for them.

 

“Lady Sansa, you come with me.” Sandor grabbed her hand and pulled her down so they were walking bent low, Sandor removing a knife from his belt as they made their way forward. Sansa gripped the handle of her dagger, all her senses alert. She prayed to the Seven that whoever had spoken would be gone and that they'd reach Winterfell without ever encountering them.

 

They all crept through the brush, going slightly uphill as they left the creek behind. “Get down,” whispered Sandor. They crawled over the damp ground and took a position behind a bush. Several feet away, Harry and Jeyne did the same. Beyond them, Ned and Arya were each behind a tree.

 

Between the leaves, Sansa saw two groups of men maintaining their distance from one another. One group was dirty and on foot; the other was mounted and had the slight polish of retainers of a minor house.

 

“Who are you?” said one of the men-at-arms with a supercilious air.

 

“Name’s Yoren.”

 

Sansa gasped. _I know him!_ she mouthed to Sandor, who furrowed his brow in response.

 

He then looked toward Harry and nodded to the other group of men. Harry nodded in response. They were the men from the inn.

 

“Yoren,” said the man contemptuously. “Where are you and these men going?”

 

“Where do crows usually fly?”

 

“Are you going to Winterfell?”

 

“Might stop there on our way. The Starks have been friends t’ the black brothers as far back as I can remember.”

 

“And where is your friend Lord Stark?”

 

“He was in King’s Landing, last I saw ‘im.”

 

“We have reason to believe he’s in this area. Have you seen him here?”

 

“No.”

 

“We believe he’s heading for Winterfell,” said another of the soldiers.

 

“Likely, seeing as he lives there.” Yoren turned and spat what looked like blood.

 

Just then a large gust of wind blew and leaves and twigs rained down. A large branch fell and all the men looked in the direction Sansa and the others were hiding. For a moment, Sansa thought she’d been hit by a falling tree but then realized Sandor was on top of her, his olive green cloak spread over them, his one arm locked around her torso, the hand holding his knife pressed into the ground, ready to spring up with her in his grasp. “Shhh,” he breathed into her ear.

 

They lay absolutely still. Sansa’s heart was pounding. With Sandor’s chin resting on her head, she couldn't see anything but the mud an inch from her nose though she could feel the intensity of Sandor’s watchfulness.

 

“If you happen to see him, the king would be indebted –”

 

“You know men o’ the Night’s Watch take no part in such things so you’ll have t’ find Lord Stark yourself, though if you think he looks like any o’ this lot, I doubt you’ll ever find ‘im.”

 

One of the men who’d not spoken seemed to take offense to that but Yoren waved on his band of recruits and the two parties separated, Yoren heading north, the others heading south.

 

Long moments went by before Sandor eased his body off of Sansa’s. “Are you alright?” he said, barely loud enough to be heard.

 

Sansa nodded.

 

It was near an hour before they left their places in the brush and returned to their horses. No one said anything for the longest time, their close call having rattled them all.

 

When they were ready to ride again, Ned turned to Sandor and said, “I think we should join Yoren and his men.”

 

Sansa was surprised when Sandor nodded in agreement.

 

*

 

Since Yoren and the men bound for the Wall were on foot it didn't take long for Sansa and the others to overtake them.

 

"Yoren!" her father called.

 

All of them turned, most aggressively, a few brandishing weapons.

 

"Lord Stark." Yoren chuckled. "I was just talking ‘bout you."

 

"I know. We thought they'd found us at first."

 

While Yoren and her father talked, Sansa looked over those in his charge. There were nine of them all together, a few were merely boys, undoubtedly orphans, but Sansa knew the men were probably criminals. Only Yoren and a boy around Robb’s age did not make her wonder if joining them wasn't a mistake. The other men had a hardened, dangerous look about them. They stared openly at her father at first but then one nudged the other and nodded towards Sandor. Then they all seemed to notice that they were in company with the Hound. Sansa felt certain some of the looks bestowed upon her were more lascivious than admiring and she shifted against Sandor. He reached around in front of her and gripped her upper arm, his forearm above her chest, and whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, little bird," while glaring at the men. The gesture seemed suitably threatening and intimate enough to encourage most of the men to turn their attention back to the conversation between their recruiter and the Warden of the North, former Hand of the King.

 

"It would be safer for us all if we traveled these last leagues together, if you agree," her father was saying.

 

"We'd be grateful, m’lord. We've been trailed by wolves these past few days."

 

"Trailed?"

 

"Attacked us the other night, they did. Killed three o’ the men. Only lost three men in the thirty years before that."

 

"Those three were no loss," muttered the boy of an age with Robb. Now that she noticed him, Sansa was taken aback by how much he reminded her of Lord Renly. He was a handsome, tall, well-muscled boy with thick, dark hair that fell across his forehead. He didn't seem to belong with the others. Sansa glanced toward her sister and found Arya staring at him.

 

"No, no loss there," agreed Yoren. "Couldn't even find the body o’ the one with the funny hair," he said to Ned. "Probably dragged off into the woods."

 

Ned was looking at the boy, too. "Gendry?" he asked, and Sansa and Arya both turned to him, stunned.

 

"Yes, m'lord."

 

"What are you doing with the Night's Watch? Why aren't you still with Tobho Mott?"

 

“He told me I was to join the Watch.”

 

“He didn’t say why?”

 

“No, he jus’ said to go so I went.”

 

Ned's expression was severe. He gave a nod and seemed disquieted but he turned to the rest of them and said, "You're welcome to rest a while at Winterfell before continuing to the Wall."

 

"That's very kind, m'lord, very kind," Yoren said as he folded another sourleaf and put it in his mouth.

 

"We'd best continue on," Sandor said, nudging Stranger around the group and regaining the trail. Sansa was glad to be out of their view and on their way again.

 

That night they settled in a clearing and made a wide circle around the fire. It crackled loudly as the water in the wet wood boiled, fizzed, and popped. The wind blew the smoke this way and that, making everyone cough and rub at their reddened eyes.

 

Ned gave some of their food to the men and boys, and Yoren sent a few of them to trap or catch what they could. They returned with three squirrels, two pheasants, and some slimy-looking fish. Yoren’s recruits kept mainly to themselves, though Gendry listened to the conversation between Ned and Yoren even if he didn’t contribute. His eyes kept moving to Sandor’s hound’s-head helmet.

 

“That helm had better be there in the morning, boy,” Sandor eventually commented.

 

“Who made it?”

 

“Not that braggart Tobho Mott.”

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

“Who made your helmet?” Arya chimed in.

 

“I did,” Gendry answered, a bit of pride piercing his sullenness.

 

“Let me see it.”

 

Gendry frowned but muttered, “Yes, m’lady,” as he walked around the fire to hand it to her. It was highly polished with sharp bull’s horns protruding from the sides. Sansa recognized that it was finely wrought.

 

“Seen worse,” Sandor said.

 

“Can I take a look at yours?”

 

After a pause, Sandor nodded and Gendry walked over to pick it up from where it lay amongst Sandor’s other belongings. He sat next to Arya and looked over the dog’s head inside and out, feeling the steel and running his fingertips over the details, his eyes narrowed with professional interest. Arya began to pepper him with questions and Sansa turned her attention to the men who were pulling their dinner out of the fire.

 

"When did you leave King's Landing?" Ned asked Yoren as everyone ate and wolves bayed at the moon.

 

"Soon after you let me take some men from the dungeons,” Yoren said. "Heard the city was all in an uproar over your departure. Talk on the road was you refused to support the prince’s claim and made off with his sworn shield." Looking at Sandor, he added, "I see that's true enough."

 

"That's not precisely what happened," Ned said, "but the result is the same.”

 

"Been traveling the kingsroad for years and the tales get stranger all the time. Things aren’t what they use t’ be. The queen, queen regent she is now, sent gold cloaks after one o’ the boys,” he said, nodding toward Gendry. “ _Gold cloaks._ Laws protect the Night’s Watch. Least, they used t’.” He spat.

 

Ned's eyes moved to Gendry only for a moment before he asked, "Did you meet any northerners on the road? Anyone from my household?"

 

"Didn't meet anyone but they killed your septa. Put her head on a spike, so they say. Disgraceful if it’s true. The High Septon took deep offense t’ it but the prince don't care. The queen regent is trying to sweet talk him, the septon, that is, but a snake can't spit honey so I doubt she'll get too far."

 

"Septa Mordane?" Sansa was stricken. "Why would they do that? She was god-sworn!"

 

The men who'd been stealing furtive glances at her before now looked at her openly. Her father's forehead creased. Sandor's heavy hand rested on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He murmured something soothing that she didn't quite catch and she sniffed and reined in her tears. A wolf howled.

 

"I'm sorry, m’lady," Yoren said. "Hate t’ bring you sad tidings." He turned and spat out a stream of sourleaf juice.

 

"Who else?" Ned asked gravely.

 

Yoren eyed Sansa before answering. "Well, there was fighting, o’ course. We were jus’ outside the city when we heard another rumor. Or was it later? Ah, the days been running together o’ late. Might jus’ be gossip, though, like the word about that one," he said, tipping his head towards Sandor.

 

“Answer the question, old man," Sandor rumbled, finally taking his hand off Sansa's shoulder.

 

"Well, you'd slipped away but the prince; he was still thirsty for northern blood, wasn't he? He wanted someone t’ punish in your stead, Lord Stark. Said he was going to kill one o’ yours every day until you returned t’ the city and swore allegiance. Lined ‘em up out there on that marble pulpit at the Great Sept o’ Baelor. They were all there - the prince, the queen regent, Lord Baelish, Lord Varys, the king’s justice o’ course, all of them were said to be there for the first execution. "

 

“Who?” Sansa asked breathlessly.

 

“Last execution, too,” Yoren continued, unaware Sansa had spoken. “The people didn’t like it. Throwing things, they were. Rocks, filth. The High Septon had been preaching about the evil o’ killing innocents and the faithful. Heard the queen put a stop t’ it after that.”

 

" _Who?_ " they all demanded.

 

Yoren looked at Ned. "Your steward."


	22. Chapter 22

The howling of the wolves made a terrible backdrop to Jeyne's scream. Sansa hurried to her side and put an arm around her. Her friend shook and wailed and wouldn't or couldn't understand that they had no proof of her father's fate. After a time her hysteria exhausted itself and she simply cried and cried, deaf to any suggestions or kindly meant words. An uncomfortable silence fell over the others. Some of them were impotent in the face of Jeyne's grief; others seemed embarrassed by depth of her misery. They were all shocked when Jeyne finally collected herself and, glaring at Sandor, accused, "This is all _your_ fault!"

 

" _My_ fault?" Sandor eyed her in an unfriendly manner.

 

She stalked around the campfire. "Yes, your fault! If you hadn't, if you'd just - I _told_ you didn't want to leave! You made me! You _made_ me and now . . ." A sob shook her.

 

"Listen, girl," Sandor said softly.

 

"No! _You_ listen! You had no right to interfere!" Tears flowed over her cheeks though her eyes were still angry. "I could tell -"

 

With that Sandor stood and grabbed Jeyne's arm, yanking her into him and heaving her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He turned and took a step toward the darkness of the woods.

 

"Clegane! Put her down this instant!"

 

"Put me _down!_ " Jeyne tried to flail her arms and legs but Sandor locked his arm across the back of her thighs and pinned her there. Her fists beat uselessly at his back.

 

"Lady Jeyne and I are going to talk. We'll be back." And then he stalked off, carrying the now-limp and crying Jeyne into the woods.

 

Sansa stared after them. Everyone did. Yoren chuckled. "She'll be alright. Plenty o' fight in that one."

 

Ned stood, frowning into the darkness. "Harry, go after them and make sure Jeyne is alright. Tell Clegane to bring her back at once."

 

"He won't hit her, m'lord. He never hits me. He just says he will."

 

"Go, please."

 

Sansa knew Harry was apprehensive about the wolves so she rose, too, and said, "I'll go with him."

 

"No -" her father began.

 

“I’ll protect her, m’lord,” Harry said earnestly. “Hound says I’m to protect her when he’s not around.”

 

"Jeyne will be easier if I'm with her," Sansa added.

 

Ned looked like he was going to argue but, to her surprise, relented. "If you can't find them easily, let them go. And stay within sight of the fire."

 

"We will," Sansa assured him.

 

She and Harry picked their way along, trying to avoid being detected by Sandor, who had quickly outpaced them. Sansa tried to listen for his footfall but the wind obscured it.

 

“Where do you think he’s taking her?” Harry asked quietly.

 

“The creek?” Sansa wasn’t at all sure but maybe Sandor thought Jeyne would calm down after having her face washed with some cool water.

 

Not having a better idea, they headed in that direction and found Sandor and Jeyne facing each other on the moonlit bank. Suddenly Jeyne hauled her arm back and threw a punch as hard as she could at Sandor. Sansa’s jaw fell open but Sandor merely caught Jeyne’s fist in his palm and said, "Again, girl, if you want to."

 

Sansa made to rush out of the trees but Harry caught her sleeve and, lowering his eyes, said, “Best not to.” Sansa realized he was probably right and stayed behind the bush obscuring them from Jeyne and Sandor’s view. Jeyne swung at Sandor again and again, but then her energy seemed to flag and she sunk down onto a log, buried her face in her hands, and cried. Sandor looked out into the night, his back to Sansa and Harry. He made no effort to soothe or speak with Jeyne, who cried a few minutes longer before growing calmer. As she cuffed at her eyes, Sandor said, "You wouldn't have wanted to be in King's Landing if they _did_ do for your father."

 

"Yes, I would have!"

 

"No, girl, you wouldn't. Who would have looked after you?"

 

"Willard would have -"

 

"He's a man-at-arms, not a wet-nurse."

 

"He would have married me."

 

"And what would have happened to him if Joffrey found out he'd married Lady Sansa's little friend? Could he protect you from the king he serves?"

 

Jeyne made no answer.

 

"You're better off with Lord Stark."

 

Jeyne remained quiet.

 

"And, girl?"

 

She looked up at him.

 

"Don't go telling tales or I'll make you sorry."

 

"Let's go," Sansa whispered to Harry, who nodded, and they crept back the way they came.

  
Ned’s head snapped up as they stepped out of the trees.

  
“They’re fine,” Sansa said. “They’ll be back soon.” She didn’t know if that was true but it seemed likely.

 

Shortly thereafter, Sandor and Jeyne returned. Jeyne avoided meeting anyone's eye and walked directly to her bedroll. She dragged it into the shadows and lay down. Sandor sat by the men around the fire, pulled out a flask, and took a long swig from it. No one said a word. Sansa knew Jeyne must be horribly embarrassed. She approached and knelt down next to her. "Jeyne? Are you alright?"

 

Tears rolled over her friend’s cheeks. Jeyne clenched her jaw and sniffed, shaking her head, trying to avoid another racking crying jag. “I _hate_ him,” she said through gritted teeth.

 

Sansa opened her mouth but there was nothing to say. It was the wrong time to defend Sandor and an even worse moment to chide Jeyne for unkindness.

 

Jeyne curled into a ball and closed her eyes. "Please, Sansa. Just leave me alone."

 

Sansa murmured, "Of course," and returned to the campfire where some of the men were making forced conversation. The tension and heavy atmosphere lasted the rest of the night and it was a relief when her father suggested they turn in early.

 

*

 

The next night the howling was closer and it spooked the men and horses. Even Sandor kept his eyes on the darkness and his hand near the hilt of his sword, yet Sansa felt an odd calm. It reminded her of Lady. Arya wasn't bothered, either. Jeyne was in a fog of grief and didn't seem to hear the baying at all.

 

They'd traveled a good distance that day and everyone was tired as they set up camp. So it was startling when, just as everyone began to relax around the fire, the horses started to panic, pulling at their bits and leads and whinnying loudly. Even Stranger shimmied sideways, his eyes white.

 

"M'lady! Look out!" Gendry screamed, seizing Arya's arm and throwing her aside like a ragdoll. Everyone else froze. Wolves of all sizes encircled their camp but Sansa saw the largest one heading right for her sister.

 

"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" Arya yelled as she got to her feet in a huff. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the approaching wolf. "NYMERIA!"

 

Sansa stared as the huge direwolf loped toward her sister, her pink tongue lolling, her sharp teeth wet with saliva. There was blood on the fur around her mouth. Arya catapulted herself at the wolf, throwing her arms around her neck and burying her face in her fur. "I never thought I'd see you again!"

 

"I can't believe it," Sansa said as her sister patted and ruffled her long-lost pet.

 

"Me, either!" Arya cried happily.

 

"That's _yours_?!" Gendry exclaimed.

 

"Yes," Arya answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

"Each of my children has . . . or had a direwolf they raised from a pup," explained Ned to the shocked and wary men.

 

Nymeria gave a series of short barks and the other wolves faded away into the night. She nuzzled against Arya, who laughed and hugged her.

 

"That beast can't stay here," protested one of the men. "She’ll slaughter us . . ."

 

"Only if I tell her to," said Arya, not removing her gaze from her pet, who she was looking over for any sign of injury.

 

When Arya was done with her inspection and satisfied that her wolf was no worse off after a year away from her, Nymeria turned and looked directly at Sansa. Her shoulders rolled as she approached. Sansa reached out to pat her and the direwolf nudged against her until Sansa was forced to sit down. Then the large, furry head was in her lap and Nymeria whined in such a way that Sansa's heart nearly broke. "I miss her, too," she said, rubbing behind an ear. Nymeria's yellow eyes met hers and she whined again and Sansa knew, just knew, that she understood.

  
"Unbelievable," muttered one of the men.

 

With that, Nymeria rose and approached Sandor. She stared up at him and he stared back. Nymeria gave an acknowledging bark and then, after glancing at a horrified Gendry, returned to Arya, laying at her feet as though she'd been there forever.

 

“She’s even bigger than before,” commented Yoren.

 

Arya smiled and nodded happily.

 

It took a long time for the horses to adjust to Nymeria’s presence. Sandor and Harry soothed them as some of Yoren’s recruits complained quietly about the dangers of being near such a creature. In the end they seemed to decide they’d rather be near a pet direwolf than alone in the woods where the rest of the pack lurked. The boys warmed up to Nymeria first and began to ask questions, which Arya answered readily.

 

As Arya was telling the story of how their brother Robb had found the pups, one of the men separated himself from the group and sat down next to Sansa. She'd caught his eye before but they'd never spoken. He was older, about five-and-thirty, and Sansa knew his name was Jack. He eyed her with a shy smile. “I’m sorry about your septa, m’lady.”

 

“Thank you,” Sansa said.

“I thought northerners prayed to the old gods.”

 

“My father does but my mother follows the Seven.”

 

“And you, m’lady?”

 

Sansa looked down. She didn’t usually struggle to talk with anyone but somehow Jack's questions seemed calculated for exposure. _Stop being suspicious. He's just making conversation._ “I . . . I believe in the lessons of both.”

 

Jack smiled at her. “You are a generous lady, to open your heart to more than one.”

 

Sansa's eyes flitted away from his face. Her father was keeping an eye on her from the other side of the fire. Sandor was holding Stranger's lead but was otherwise ignoring his horse to glare at the back of Jack's head. “My septa was very kind,” she said for lack of a more direct response to his comment.

 

“You’re a credit to her, m’lady, if you don’t mind me saying so. And your father. It was generous of him to offer to travel with us, especially as we’re on foot and slowing you down.”

 

“My father is one of the kindest men I know.” _What do you want?_

 

“And the Hound? Has he been kind to you?”

 

Sansa was taken aback. His tone was not impertinent but Sansa didn’t like his question. Sandor’s attention to her was obvious but Jack seemed to imply it was something more than protective. To stifle his interest in her private affairs, she said, “Sandor Clegane would kill for me.”

 

Jack’s eyebrows rose and he looked amused. “I meant no offense, m’lady. Only a fool would cross him.”

 

“I’m certain you’re no fool.”

 

"No, m'lady." He smiled at her again and when she didn't say anything else, he said, "Thank you for the talk.”

 

He moved away and Sansa adjusted her skirts and turned her attention to Arya, her face as stoic as could be though her mind was churning. She wondered if her feelings for Sandor were obvious, and couldn’t decide. She didn’t hide the fact that she enjoyed his company but was she showing an indecent amount of favor? Her father hadn’t said anything but the thought that her feelings were known niggled at her. She didn’t think Sandor’s feelings for her were known by anyone but Arya, but then Jeyne’s words the night before came back to her.

  
Approaching footsteps shook her out of her contemplation and a moment later Sandor sank down next to her. Sansa gave him half a smile. She wanted to share her troubled thoughts with him but their company was too close.

 

“Was he bothering you?” Sandor rumbled under his breath.

 

“No,” she said quietly.

 

Sandor gave her a hard stare but Sansa gave a small shake of her head. “We can talk more tomorrow,” she mumbled.

 

Sandor nodded and tipped a flagon into his mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, rested his forearms on his knees, and watched as Arya continued to regale her audience with tales of training her direwolf.

 

*

 

Nymeria was at Arya’s side as they packed up the next morning. Arya opted to walk next to her wolf and make conversation with Yoren’s boys rather than ride. Harry joined them and Yoren was more than happy to make use of their horse. Jeyne dabbed at her eyes only a few times but was quiet and withdrawn, saying little in response to Sansa’s and Ned’s inquiries.

 

Sansa didn’t tell Sandor what Jeyne had said the night before. She didn’t think he’d be _hurt_ by her words, per se. It was more that she couldn’t believe Jeyne might truly mean them. Troublesome things crept through Sansa’s mind as Sandor lifted her into Stranger’s saddle. Sandor seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts as well so it was a long while until he startled her by breaking the silence and asking, "What did he want?"

 

Sansa knew exactly who _he_ was. “Oh, he said he was sorry about Septa Mordane.”

 

Sandor stiffened. Sansa recognized it for a sign of displeasure and said, “What is it? Surely that doesn’t offend you.”

 

"Are you upset about what happened to her?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

Sansa could feel the irritation roll off of him though he didn't say anything. “What’s wrong?” she asked, at a loss as to why _that_ inquiry by Jack should rattle him so.

 

“If you’re upset, I want to know about it.”

 

“You _did_ know. You touched my shoulder when -”

 

“Mangy bastard,” Sandor muttered with considerable heat.

 

“Sandor. I don’t understand why you’re –”

 

“Sansa. That whoreson doesn’t give a –”

 

“He was just offering his sympathy.”

 

“He can take his _sympathy_ and –”

 

“That’s not what I wanted to tell you about. It wasn’t what he said, so much. I just . . . I don’t know. It was like he wanted to speak on intimate terms but was waiting for a signal from me before he would.”

 

“ _Intimate terms_? Tell me what he said.”

 

“He asked if you were kind to me. I told him Septa Mordane was kind and he said my father is and I agreed and then he asked if you were kind to me.” It seemed like nothing now that she recounted it.

 

“And what did you tell him?”

 

“I told him you would kill for me.”

 

Sandor gave a mean-sounding chuckle that grew into a rough, raucous laugh that momentarily quieted everyone behind them. When he stilled again, he squeezed Sansa between his elbows and kissed the crown of her head, the beard he’d grown scratching against her scalp. Then he began chuckling again, his chest bumping against her back. “Little bird, you told it true.”

 

“He said only a fool would cross you.”

 

Sandor snorted. “Does this man worry you?”

 

Sansa considered. He wasn’t as forward as William Dench had been but she didn’t believe he’d joined the Night’s Watch for either honor or duty. “I . . . would prefer not to be alone with him.” Chances of that seemed slim but she felt better for having voiced her concern.

 

“You won’t be.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Do any of the others bother you?”

 

“No, what bothers me is feeling unclean all the time.” The mid-day sun had warmed them and Sansa felt like she was steaming in her still-damp cloak. “Do you think we might be able to bathe today?” Her moonblood was dwindling and she longed for a thorough washing.

 

Sandor exhaled in a way that meant he wasn’t inclined to agree. “Can’t it wait? Any one of these bastards would jump at the chance to see you naked if they only had to crawl through the weeds to do it.”

 

“You and Father could stand guard. Or Nymeria.”

 

Sandor leaned down and sniffed her hair. “You smell good to me.”

 

Sansa smiled but was determined. Moreover, she was fairly certain she did not, in fact, smell good. Even a cloth bath wasn’t that effective when privacy to disrobe was nil. “You are very kind but I’m sure I’d benefit from even a short soak.”

 

“Your father won’t want me asking about your baths. You’ll have to convince him.”

 

When they stopped later for those who had to make water, Sansa approached Ned.

 

“Sansa, our time would be better spent on the road,” he said. “We should be home in a few days –”

 

“It won’t take long. Besides, most of Yoren’s men are scratching . . .” Sansa didn’t wish to be insulting, and she knew Yoren to be a good man, but the smell of him was appalling. She'd seen him pull a louse out of his beard and flick it into the fire and the thought of harboring such things herself made her skin crawl. His recruits were growing more rank by the day even as the weather continued to cool. "Mother is probably beside herself with worry as it is. If we arrive looking like we -"

 

"Alright, Sansa. If we can find a spring, we'll make camp near it tonight."

 

As it turned out, the boys and even some of the men were interested in finding a hot spring. The idea of swimming in a warm pool was a novelty as none of them had ever been north before. Once their camp was established, the ladies were allowed to bathe first and Nymeria and Ned went with them. When they returned, Yoren gave permission for his men to go. “Hold your breath and stay under for as long as you can. Unless you _want_ the buggers to run into your ears and mouth, that is,” he advised with a laugh.

 

Sansa grimaced. Sandor gave her an amused look and went to bathe himself. When he returned and took up a place beside her, she smiled and said, “There. Now isn’t that better? Isn’t it nice to have clean hair?”

 

“Not as nice as you washing it for me,” he answered under his breath as he raked his fingers through the wet strands.

 

Sansa longed to reach out and touch his hair, to drag her nails gently over his scalp. She knew he’d like it and it was hard to refrain but she resisted.

 

“Did you swim in the springs when you were at Winterfell last?” she asked quietly.

 

He turned toward her, his eyes just slightly narrowed. “No. Is that something you northerners do?”

 

“My brothers and Arya, Theon, and I used to do it all the time when we were younger. It’s especially nice on a cool day, though we’d freeze running back inside.” She smiled at the memory. She’d missed the rest of her family all along but now that they were near, she ached for their company.

 

“Will you go swimming with me, if we can manage it?" he asked. "Outside, under the trees?” he added with a wink.

 

A rush went through Sansa at his directness. Her mind instantly came up with objections. She did know of pools deep in the forest but one never knew when a hunting party or one of her brothers might pass by. If they were caught even just swimming, her mother and father would be scandalized, to say nothing of everyone else. Still, she answered truthfully. “I’d like that.”

 

Sandor looked a little surprised but then smiled at her and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Then he called, “Lord Stark,” to Ned, who was several feet away.

 

Sansa tried to discreetly bump Sandor’s arm with her elbow. “ _What are you doing?_ ” she hissed under her breath.

 

Her father looked up. Sandor rose and approached him. “We’d make better time if we returned to the kingsroad. With the crows, we outnumber the Lannisters’ men.”

 

“I’ve been thinking the same but they might be on the kingsroad themselves. Let’s keep to the trails for another couple of days. Yoren, do you agree?”

 

Yoren walked over to join them. “The Wall will be there, Lord Stark. We’ll take whichever path you choose.”

Sandor sat down next to Sansa again and she asked, “Why did you do that?”

 

“To get us to Winterfell sooner.” The heated look in his eyes let her know that he meant more than just walking her through the gatehouse.

 

Sansa’s cheeks grew warm but before she could respond, Gendry approached and asked if Sandor was much acquainted with his former master, Tobho Mott. Sansa felt badly for Gendry. It must be very hard to be cast out and not know why. When they began discussing the various smiths on the Street of Steel, Sansa moved to join Arya, Harry, and Nymeria. She was going to ask Jeyne to join her but Jack was next to her, smiling and talking. She couldn’t hear what he was saying but, eventually, Jeyne seemed to grow receptive to his attention and even smiled at one point. Sansa kept a subtle watch on them for the remainder of the night. Jeyne didn’t seem bothered, indeed Ned was but an arm’s length away, and Sansa wondered over it. Was Jack drawing her out as a kindness in the wake of her grief, or was he attempting to charm her into familiarity, as Sansa had felt might be the case when he’d spoken with her?

 

*

 

The next morning, Sansa asked Jeyne about it. “Jack wasn’t making you uncomfortable last night, was he?”

 

“No, why would you think that?”

 

“You didn’t find him familiar?”

 

Jeyne wrinkled her brow. “He offered his condolences on my father and we talked about him going to the Wall.”

 

“It must be very different from what he’s known.”

 

“I told him he should ask for Jon Snow if he needs anything.”

 

Sansa thought that was a little forward. “Jon has to follow orders. I’m sure new recruits have an officer who can help them.” Jon’s letters belied a frustration with some of the Watch’s practices and, though Jeyne wouldn’t have known that, Sansa doubted he’d want to feel obligated to a stranger, let alone an assertive one.

 

“Certainly but Jon is very kind and would help anyone who needed it.”

 

“That’s true.”

 

“Besides, I told Jack that I wasn’t sure a place could be found for him at Winterfell.”

 

“He asked for one?” Sansa was astounded.

 

“He said he could tell by my kindness and intelligence that my father was no doubt a prudent and astute steward.” She seemed pleased by the compliment.

 

“And he thinks to take your father’s position?” Sansa could not believe the man would be so insensitive.

 

“Sansa, don’t be silly. He worked as a tanner’s assistant before deciding to join the Watch. He couldn’t be steward, though he said he’d be honored to work for such a family as yours.”

 

“He should really talk to my father if that’s what he wants.” _And my father will tell him to honor his commitment to the Night’s Watch._

 

“I told him just the same.”

 

Sansa contained a sigh of relief. “Will he?”

 

“I’m not sure. Right after that, he began to ask about our time in King’s Landing and somehow we got to talking about Willard and –”

 

Sansa let Jeyne finish but her mind was occupied with figuring out Jack’s intentions. She watched him that day and night and at no time did he attempt to speak with her father. He laughed along with japes the men made and talked amongst his fellows but he remained on the fringes of her father’s company. She also noticed that Jack kept his distance from Sandor, who she watched as well. Sandor spoke his mind and took care of various necessary tasks personally and without prompting. _That’s as it should be_ , Sansa thought. She considered asking her father if Jack had approached him but she wouldn’t inadvertently give him the idea of offering Jack a place if Jack couldn’t be bothered to ask for one himself.

 

*

 

The next two days slipped by and the other wolves did not return when they made camp, though they could be heard at a distance and sometimes Nymeria would disappear into the woods. Sansa and Sandor were leading the party along the trail when Sandor asked if Jack or anyone else had bothered her again.

 

“No. I don’t think he meant me harm. The rest of them are nice enough; Gendry, in particular.”

 

“He’s unlucky.”

 

“He is! His master must have been very cruel to just –”

 

“I mean he’s unlucky in that he’s drawn your sister’s notice.”

 

Sansa shook her head at his obvious misunderstanding. “No, Arya always talks to everyone.”

 

He said, “Mm hm,” but sounded unconvinced.

 

“You think she’s . . .” Certainly not interested in Gendry. That couldn’t be. And he was quite literally on his way to the Wall which made any attachment pointless.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sansa turned to look at him, incredulous. “No.”

 

Sandor favored her with a superior look.

 

Sansa didn’t want to betray her sister’s confidence but she’d told Sansa that she’d never had feelings for anyone like Sansa had for Sandor and, besides, Arya had only just met Gendry. “He’s going to join the Night’s Watch,” Sansa said, looking at Sandor quizzically, wondering how he could ignore that simple fact.

  
“You were going to marry Joffrey.”

 

The two circumstances seemed entirely different to Sansa. She resolved to ask Arya about her feelings when next they were alone. “I’m certain you’re mistaken.”

 

“You are, are you? Care to make it interesting?”

 

“Interesting?”

 

“Yes, as in a wager. Your sister doesn’t know it yet but it she’ll be making doe-eyes at that boy before the moon turns.”

 

Sansa laughed. “Doe-eyes?! Did I make doe-eyes at _you_?”

 

“Thank the gods, no.”

 

Sansa smiled. “Arya would never do that.”

 

“She likes that half-brother of yours and she carries a sword. Maybe she’ll run off and join the Night’s Watch.”

 

“Sandor, you can’t be serious.”

 

“I stood by Robert’s shoulder for years and watched the girls try to entice him. Jaime, too. Some were bold, others tried to be subtle. They all wanted the same thing. I know interest when I see it.”

 

“That may be but you don’t know Arya.”

 

Sandor snorted.

 

“A wager then. How much would you like to lose?”

 

Sandor laughed. “We don’t need gold, little bird. If I’m right, which I am, you’ll know your sister favors him before the moon turns and when that happens you’ll spend the night with me.”

 

A jolt went through Sansa’s stomach but she kept her tone light. “Fine. I say Gendry will be at his post on the Wall before then and when _that_ happens you’ll ask my father for a place at Winterfell.”

 

“You bet high, little bird.”

 

“No higher than you.”

 

“A lifetime of service versus one night?”

 

“You’re not asking for a night of Cyvasse,” Sansa pointed out, her heart beating a little faster.

 

“No, I’m not,” he said evenly. “But you’re hardly in danger, if you know your sister as well as you think you do.”

 

Sansa smiled at the challenge in his voice. She turned as much as she could and looked past Sandor to see Arya walking next to Gendry. She appeared to be arguing with him and he seemed to be trying to politely maintain his point. She looked up at Sandor and her smile broadened. “I know you’ll be happy at Winterfell.”

 

Sandor chuckled. “For one night, at least.”

 

Sansa laughed and leaned back against him. He brushed a kiss against her hair.

 

*

 

The night before they turned back toward the kingsroad, there was a cacophony of howling followed by several individual calls and then Nymeria’s solo response. It was an eerie, lonesome sound made all the more unsettling for occurring deep in the night after everyone had gone to sleep. There were whispers and then, upon everyone realizing that they were all awake, blatant questions about what was happening.

 

"Arya, can't you get her to be quiet?" Ned asked.

 

"She's saying goodbye."

 

Ned huffed and turned in his bedroll as the baying started anew. There was some muttering amongst the other men but who was to argue with a direwolf?

 

*

 

They rose very early the next morning. Sansa and Sandor went to fill skins with water while the camp was disassembled.

 

“We’ll make good time now, little bird,” Sandor said, the faint gray light of dawn just beginning to filter through the leaf canopy.

 

“It will be nice to be home,” Sansa was saying when Sandor suddenly reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her somewhat behind him. The shivery sound of his sword being withdrawn from its scabbard sent a chill down Sansa's spine. Her eyes darted everywhere in search of danger.

 

“Shh,” Sandor whispered, barely audible.

 

Sansa followed the direction of his gaze. Just distinguishable from the shadows was the huge head of a male direwolf. Inky fur and crisp green eyes were all that could be seen aside from a slight sheen where his wet nose was. Sansa felt uneasy. This animal was unknown to her. The only direwolves she’d ever known, that _anyone_ had ever known, had belonged to her and her siblings. Sandor stood stock still. The eyes blinked and faded back into the gloom. There was no sound as the direwolf withdrew.

 

Sandor looked down at Sansa and she looked up at him. A moment later Nymeria came rustling through the undergrowth and stood beside them. She gave a happy-sounding bark and headed back toward their camp. They followed her in silence.

 

She was the only wolf they saw after that. It seemed the pack had gone its own way.

 

*

 

To Sansa, it felt like the kingsroad was flooded with travelers after the isolation of the forest trails. They passed various parties throughout the days, some gaping in recognition, others calling out greetings. Now and again her father would rein up and talk with the people they passed. Most of the men and women were only too eager to relate bits of news or to ask questions of their lord. It seemed Vayon Poole had, in fact, been executed as well as Septa Mordane but Joffrey’s plan to kill one member of the Stark household a day appeared ill-founded. No one mentioned Jory and the others specifically and Ned didn’t ask. As far as anyone knew, Lord Stannis was planning to claim the throne as his and was preparing to attack King’s Landing. The Faith was still displeased with the king and queen regent though they hadn’t declared openly for Stannis. There seemed to be unrest in the Riverlands but details were few.

 

Since the road was wider, they no longer had to travel single file. Sandor drew even with Ned after yet another man had asked about the coming war. “What’s your plan, Stark?”

 

Ned blew out a breath. Sansa could tell his mind was spinning despite his tired appearance. “What’s yours, Clegane?”

 

All of a sudden, Nymeria streaked by.

 

“Nymeria!” Arya called after her, attempting to take control of the reins from her father and urge their horse into pursuit.

 

“Arya, let her go. We’ll never catch her,” Ned commanded, reclaiming the reins.

 

Arya huffed as she stared at the spot on the hill where her direwolf had disappeared.

 

Just a few minutes later, Nymeria was seen on the crest of the hill. Everyone gasped as another wolf suddenly popped into view next to her. For a moment, Sansa thought it was the black one she and Sandor had seen before but this wolf was lighter.

 

“Grey Wind!” Arya shrieked.

 


	23. Chapter 23

The wolves raced down the hill together as two riders appeared at the top. They seemed to recognize members of Sansa’s party at the same moment as she, her father, and Arya recognized them. “Robb! Theon!”

 

The distance between them was covered in a flash, everyone else left behind.

 

Suddenly they were all talking at once.

 

“How did you know we were here?

 

"We've been looking for you for these past weeks."

 

“Didn’t think we’d find you on the kingsroad.”

 

“We couldn’t believe it when we saw Nymeria.”

 

“Is that Yoren?”

 

They all scrambled out of their saddles. Sandor helped Sansa down and then remained next to Stranger. Ned hugged Robb hard and clapped Theon on the shoulder. Sansa and Arya rushed into Robb’s arms as Theon said, “What are you doing here, Clegane?”

 

Sansa winced. She’d known that was the question everyone would ask but, still, it didn't sound welcoming and that hurt her.

 

“Clegane arranged the ship that took us out of King’s Landing,” her father said.

 

“He  _saved_  us,” Sansa couldn’t help adding.

 

Robb’s brow furrowed and Sansa felt as though a mouthful of snow had just fallen into her stomach.

 

“Have any of my men returned? Have you heard from any of them?” Ned asked.

 

Both Robb and Theon looked confused. “No, Father, aren’t they with you?” Robb asked, his eye traveling over the road behind them.

 

“No. We’ll talk more about that later. Right now, I want to get to Winterfell. Yoren and his men are welcome to rest a few days before going to the Wall and arrangements will have to be made for them. Ride on ahead. Robb, tell your mother we’re on our way. Tell your mother  _first_.”

 

“I will.”

 

“I want to come with you,” Arya said. Robb put her in the saddle in front of him and they, Theon, and the two direwolves galloped away at a blistering pace.

 

Sansa, her father, and Sandor merely stood and watched them go until they disappeared over the top of the hill. Harry, Jeyne, and the rest were still coming up the road and, for the moment, the three of them were alone.

 

“I’ll wait for the others if you want to ride on ahead,” Sandor offered.

 

“No!” Sansa protested. He’d saved them, she knew it deep in her heart, and she’d not have him trail through the gates of Winterfell like an afterthought. Sansa looked to her father, prepared to challenge him if he seemed inclined to agree.

 

Ned pulled his gaze away from the hill and looked at Sandor. “You were true to your word. You brought my children safely back to Winterfell and for that I thank you. I’ll repay you the gold you spent securing the ship –”

 

“No. I told you –”

 

“Then the passage for myself, the girls, and our horses, plus more for your trouble.”

 

“Keep your gold, Lord Stark.”

 

“Surely that can be worked out later.” Sansa cast a glance toward the approaching party. She only had another minute of privacy. “Father, Sandor and Harry are as tired as we are. They have to stay at Winterfell.” She stopped herself from saying more though reason after reason why they should stay was on the tip of her tongue.

 

Ned nodded. “There will be much to do. Once we know what’s happened, we can make decisions.”

 

“My thanks,” Sandor said.

 

Yoren and the others joined them then. Sandor lifted Sansa back into the saddle and Jeyne joined Ned for their arrival home.

 

*

 

Their pace felt achingly slow and Sansa was giddy and excited and couldn't wait to return home after so long away and such a hard trip back. She found herself leaning forward over Stranger's long neck, searching for a sign of her mother or Bran or Rickon. She’d never been so impatient to enter Winterfell’s muddy courtyard.

 

"We'll be there soon enough, girl."

 

"No, not 'soon enough,'" she answered, turning around to smile at Sandor. He was eyeing the granite walls with hesitancy. It sobered her. "I’ll tell everyone how you saved us."

 

Sandor cut his eyes to hers. "They'll be suspicious of me enough as it is. You singing my praises will only make them more so."

 

"It's all true."

 

Sandor pressed his lips into a flat line and turned his gaze back to the fortress. After a pause he said, "Little bird?" He cleared his throat. "Lean against me. If you would."

 

Sansa leaned back and Sandor wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her firmly. He lowered his nose to her temple and breathed in the scent of her hair. Sansa regretted not finding an opportunity to kiss him on the lips before they’d gotten so close to Winterfell. Her father and Jeyne were several feet to their side and their eyes were firmly on their destination but even a peck would be too risky. A bubble of disappointment rose up within Sansa but she focused her attention on what was to come.

 

Quietly, she said, "You should smile."

 

" _What?_ "

 

"When we get there, you should smile."

 

Sandor looked at her dubiously.

 

"It puts people at ease. The last time anyone at home saw you, you were sworn to Prince Joffrey, and he certainly didn't win any friends here." She didn't mention what she'd heard about Sandor's own words to Robb or Ser Rodrick.

 

Sandor shifted in the saddle behind her and exhaled deeply but quietly. Sansa could feel it on her hair.

 

“Father will speak on your behalf, I’m sure of it.” She was  _mostly_  sure but she wanted to be encouraging.

 

“We’ll be there soon enough,” he repeated.

 

*

 

They entered the courtyard to gasps and cheers. For a moment, it seemed like everyone was frozen, staring at the mounted pairs as they stared at the assembled party. Then everyone rushed them. Sandor dismounted and pulled Sansa down from the saddle saying under his breath, "Go see your mother, girl."

 

Sansa threw herself into her mother's arms after she'd stopped hugging Ned and cried in happiness and relief. She clutched at her brothers, scarcely able to believe how much they’d grown since she’d been away. Such a fuss was made over them all that it was long moments before Sansa was able to break away and look for Sandor. He was standing next to Stranger, holding his lead, surveying the commotion with a severe expression. Sansa knew he was under strain but that was only because she knew him well. Harry was gaping at the people, stunned by their reaction.

 

It was then that she heard it. “Turncloak,” someone said. Sansa whipped around, searching for the offending party. More than few eyes were on Sandor. “What’s the prince’s dog doing back here?” someone else muttered.

 

 _This has to stop!_ Sansa grabbed her mother's hand and dragged her over, hoping the castlefolk would follow their lady's lead if they saw her being cordial.

 

"Mother, you've met Sandor Clegane before. Sandor, I'm sure you remember my lady mother. This is Harry, Sandor's squire."

 

Lady Catelyn looked up at Sandor, censure plain on her face. Sandor tipped his head. "Lady Stark."

 

"Sandor's the reason we're here, Mother. If he hadn't figured out Joffrey's plan, we would have been trapped in King's Landing."

 

"I would not have believed you’d come back here,” Lady Catelyn said.

 

Sandor's jaw worked just slightly but otherwise he was still. Sansa was disappointed by the reception.

 

"Harry was a big help as well. We would have had a much more difficult time on the road had it not been for him." Sansa smiled at him and he blushed deeply and looked everywhere but at her.

 

Catelyn gave him a tight smile. "I thank you for your service to my family, Harry. Why don't you go to the kitchens and have something to eat and drink?"

 

"Thank you, m'lady," Harry mumbled before being led away by a squire who'd approached at a gesture from Catelyn.

 

Sansa reached for Sandor's arm. "We're meeting in Father's solar, isn't that right?"

 

Sansa felt her mother's eyes on the fingers curling around Sandor's bicep like they were searing them. She hesitated but then let go.

 

"The family is meeting in the solar, yes."

 

"Lady Sansa," Sandor said, tipping his head again. "Lady Stark." And then he strode off in the direction of the stables, leading Stranger behind him, the castlefolk moving away as though he were contagious.

 

Sansa wanted to say something to her mother to convince her of Sandor's worth and loyalty but the displeased look on her mother's face and the tightening of her jaw told her that now was not the time.

 

*

 

It seemed as if Sansa talked to the entire castle staff on the way back to her room. Her face hurt from so much smiling. The maids were most expeditious in ensuring a warm bath was drawn for her and the kitchen sent up a plate overflowing with lemon cakes in addition to meats, cheeses, fruit, and a sweet wine. She ate voraciously, not realizing how hungry she was after the meager rations she’d had at dawn that morning. Having her hair washed, brushed, and pinned felt like the most indulgent luxury. The only ripple was that she’d grown in the year she’d been away. She was a little taller and her figure was curvier. The gowns she’d left behind at home no longer fit quite right, though one was found that would serve, even if was somewhat tight across her chest.

 

“We’ll be happy to make alterations right away, Lady Sansa,” one of the maids assured her.

 

“I’m sure Lady Stark will wish you to be fitted for new gowns,” another said, taking away the woolen dress Sansa had worn for much of her journey. It embarrassed her to see how dirty and worn it was.

 

As Sansa felt the wine relaxing her muscles even more than the bath had, she asked, “Who has been serving as steward?”

 

“Your brother, m’lady, Lord Robb.”

 

“Where have our guests been housed?”

 

The maids looked at her, confused.

 

“Guests, m’lady? The men bound for the Wall were given rooms –”

 

“I meant Sandor Clegane and his squire.”

 

“In the kennels, I suppose,” japed one of the maids.

 

Sansa’s face instantly became serious and it was as though an icy draft went through the room.

 

“I apologize, m’lady –” stammered the maid.

 

“Please find out the location of their quarters and have food, at least twice as much as I have here, sent to them. Order a bath for them both and the services of a barber if they desire. I assume someone has been assisting my brother with the stewardship of the castle . . .?"

 

"Yes, m'lady, Rikard."

 

Sansa nodded. Rikard had previously assisted Vayon Poole with inventory. "Please have him sent to me.”

 

For a moment, the maids just goggled at her. Sansa kept her face still and waited. For a moment she thought of Queen Cersei, cold and imperious. Sansa knew she was different, so different, from the giggling girl who’d left Winterfell, carried along by songs and dreams just as much as she’d been by her horse. She was no longer satisfied to let events unfold and not attempt to direct them as others did.

 

The maids immediately grew more serious and, with nods and curtsies, bobbed out of her room.

 

*

 

Shortly thereafter, a knock on her door heralded the arrival of Rikard.

 

“Lady Sansa, it is such a pleasure and a relief to have you safely home again.”

 

Sansa smiled, touched. “I thank you. I would likely still be in King’s Landing and at the mercy of the Lannisters had it not been for Sandor Clegane.”

 

“I understand you wish to know the location of his lodgings.”

 

“I do. Perhaps you would be so good as to show me where they are on my way to my father’s solar.”

 

Rikard looked apprehensive but he nodded and followed her out the door.

 

*

 

Several minutes later they were in a remote part of the castle. Rikard knocked and, upon receiving no answer, swung open the door to a small, interior room. Sansa was disappointed even before she set foot inside and her displeasure was confirmed when she saw the meager space in its entirety.

 

Just a few of Sandor’s belongings had been brought up and already the room felt crowded. Being in a distant part of the castle and away from the hot springs that warmed the central part of it, the room was cool and dank. The lack of windows made it feel like a cave and Sansa doubted Sandor could even stand up, so low was the ceiling. Worse, the small bed was directly next to the even smaller fireplace and, by the gods, Sansa could not imagine a less hospitable welcome for a man who deserved so much more than he was likely to receive.

 

Rikard watched her as she surveyed the room in silence. “Lord Robb assured me no special accommodations were required . . .”

 

“This room is an offense to the services rendered to me and my family. Sandor Clegane is my rescuer, not a mushroom!” Sansa nearly cringed. Now she was _really_ reminded of Queen Cersei. She tempered her tone at once. “Rikard, I thank you for arranging a room on such short notice but it’s my express wish that Sandor Clegane be given a room that adequately reflects the gratitude owed him by myself, my father, Lady Arya, Lady Jeyne, and everyone at Winterfell for returning us home. This simply will not do.”

 

“Perhaps the room he kept during his last stay with us?”

 

“No!” Sansa’s frustration was acute. She didn’t know or care where he’d been lodged before and she was well aware that Sandor’s association with the Lannisters would not be easily forgotten but it was imperative that he be cast in a new light, and right away. “He no longer serves the Lannisters. He is his own man.”

 

“Then where?” Rikard spoke politely enough but his words were rimmed with exasperation.

 

Sansa named the first decent room she could think of. It was at the front of the castle, had tall windows, and was spacious without being ostentatious. Guests of high, though not top, importance were often housed there.

 

Rikard nodded, his thoughts on this demand well hidden.

 

“I made some other requests of the maids . . .”

 

“They’ve informed me. I’ll see that they’re fulfilled, Lady Sansa.”

 

“And Harry will be boarded with Winterfell’s own squires?”

 

“He will.”

 

“That is very good of you, Rikard. I know there is much to do with our unexpected return but it is a comfort to me to know that this small request can be accommodated. I thank you most sincerely.” She gave him a bright smile and his previous dour look fell away.

 

“It  _is_  good to have you back with us, Lady Sansa. You have been missed.”

 

Sansa’s smile wobbled as tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his arm before turning away to walk to her father’s solar.

 

*

 

Sansa stood outside of the solar door and felt guilty for not immediately making her presence known. Once she’d heard Sandor’s name, though, she was incapable of not listening.

 

“Ned, how could you even consider allowing him to stay, after what the Lannisters did to Bran?” Her mother’s voice was both angry and anguished.

 

“We have no reason to suspect him in Bran’s injury.”

 

“He killed that other boy, Arya told me. None of our children will be safe as long as he’s here.”

 

“Did Arya say she was afraid of him?”

 

“No but we know what he is.”

 

“Catelyn, we know what he  _was_. By the old gods, I can hardly believe I’m defending him but, in truth, he has been . . . useful. Sansa seems to feel an affection for him –”

 

“An  _affection_  for him? Ned, how could you allow it?”

 

“How could I stop it? They were in each other’s company frequently in King’s Landing, what with Clegane being Prince Joffrey’s sworn shield.”

 

“ _King_  Joffrey,” her mother said bitterly.

 

"Only until Lords Stannis and Renly can muster their men. Cat, please believe me. I would not have brought Clegane here if I believed him to be a threat to us or our children. His knowledge may prove valuable. He’ll be watched. If he proves himself a traitor, well . . . He’s surrounded by those faithful to us, though I don’t believe him to be that foolish.”

 

“What of this affection Sansa has for him?”

 

“It seems to stem from Clegane shielding her from Joffrey’s less chivalrous behavior,” her father said in a tight voice.

 

“I knew that boy . . .” Her voice grew too low to hear. “What did he do?”

 

“In truth, I know little of it. Robert wasn’t much interested in governing his kingdom, or the boy he thought was his son,” Ned said with disgust. “Joffrey became enraged in the yard and advanced on Sansa but Clegane took hold of the prince before he could reach her. Robert passed it off as a lovers’ spat but that boy is cruel. He bloodied his own brother . . .”

 

“And Clegane? You don’t suspect him of entertaining ideas about Sansa, do you?”

 

“She’s beautiful like her mother. Who could blame him for admiring her?”

 

Sansa could hear the smile in her father’s voice. His words were met with silence and she could practically see the unimpressed expression on her mother’s face.

 

He continued, “He’s certainly protective of her, and she seems to think well of him. Arya, too, to a degree. Clegane challenged her to a duel on board the ship and she did well. He treated her fairly.”

 

“Challenged her to a  _duel_?”

 

“I arranged for her to take fencing lessons in the Bravvosi style while we were in the capital.”

 

“Oh Ned . . .”

 

“Catelyn, it was for the best. She would have been underfoot every moment without them. And she’s been practicing faithfully. It’s good discipline for her.”

 

“If only she would practice her needlework as faithfully.”

 

“She’ll have no choice. Her master was left behind in King’s Landing and I don’t have time to find her another one.”

 

“No doubt she’ll want to carry on now that she’s home. You’ll have to explain to her that men can’t be spared for -”

 

“I’m well aware that we’re short of men, Catelyn.”

 

After a pause, her mother asked, “Will Clegane fight for the north?”

 

There was a ragged exhale and the sound of pacing footsteps. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked him to and he hasn’t asked for a place here, though I think he wants one. The Lannisters will surely hunt him so he may make a useful hostage if he proves traitorous. Ser Gregor holds his family’s lands. I don’t know where else he’d go.”

 

"Pay him for his services and send him off. He'll bring us nothing but trouble."

 

"He brought us home to you, Cat, and refuses every offer I make to pay him back. If what we're hearing from King’s Landing is true, we might well have been in trouble had we stayed there."

 

"So why is he here, Ned? Did Clegane reveal Petyr's plot because he wanted to leave the Lannisters' service and secure a place here, or did he do it to put himself directly in Sansa's path?"

 

"I don't know, Cat. Maybe some of both. Not that it matters. Would you like me to ask him?”

 

Sansa knocked on the door.

 

*

 

Being surrounded by her family again gave Sansa the most wonderful feeling of belonging. They talked for hours; Ned, Sansa, and Arya filling in the others on what had happened in King’s Landing and during their flight home; Catelyn, Robb, Bran, and Rickon sharing news of home and the rumors that had reached them from the capital. Though the question was nearly palpable in the room, no one asked Ned what would happen next. They all seemed content to spend just one night back in each other’s company.

 

*

 

Later, Sansa was lulled as her mother continued to brush her hair long after any small knots had been smoothed.

 

“We were all surprised to see Sandor Clegane with you when you returned.”

 

“Yes, I imagine you were.” Sansa had already described in detail everything that Sandor had done for them, with supporting comments made by Ned and Arya.

 

“I understand you took an interest in his lodgings here.”

 

Sansa raised her eyes to look at her mother in the mirror. “I did. He deserves better than to be stuffed in a closet.”

 

“Sansa . . .” Catelyn pulled the brush through the ends of Sansa’s hair before placing it on the dressing table. She rested her hands on Sansa’s shoulders and looked at her in the mirror. Sansa thought her mother looked very tired, though her beauty was hardly diminished. She also thought she knew what her mother wanted to say.

 

“He’s not what you think he is, Mother.”

 

“Sansa,” her mother began gently, “he’s a turncloak.”

 

Sansa immediately opened her mouth to protest but her mother held up one hand while the other squeezed her shoulder.

 

“He is. I’m grateful,  _very_  grateful, if he was of any use in bringing you home, but the fact remains that he was sworn to the Lannisters. If he turned his cloak once, who’s to say he won’t again?”

 

“The Lannisters are horrible. Well, it’s really just Queen Cersei and Joffrey who are vile, but that’s who he served. I can’t blame him for not wanting to do their bidding any longer.”

 

“He had a duty –”

 

“To let Joffrey kill Father! That was his duty! To slaughter Father’s men if Father didn’t let Joffrey remain on the throne despite not being the true heir!”

 

Lady Catelyn leveled a look on her and Sansa was hurt by it. There were few things in her old life that made her happier than having her mother’s approval. She didn’t want to argue so she asked, “Despite everything Father, Arya, and I told you, you still think he’s a traitor?”

 

“I think he bears close watching.”

 

“Please give him a chance, Mother. He has been very, very kind to me.”

 

“You owe him nothing more than your thanks.” Her mother gave her a pointed look.

 

Now seemed as good a time as any to make her intentions clear. Sansa mustered her courage and said, “I enjoy his company –”

 

Lady Catelyn frowned. “Any  _closeness_  you established on the road –”

 

“- allowed me to know him as he truly is. Mother, he is honorable. It was his masters who weren’t.”

 

Her mother looked frustrated. Sansa used to agree with her on nearly everything. Friction of any sort was usually only presented to her by Arya. Sansa was sorry to be at odds with her mother, and she knew Lady Catelyn was as unhappy about their inability to agree as she was, but Sansa knew she was right about Sandor.

 

“Mother, don’t you trust my judgment?”

 

“Sansa, if he has somehow earned your good opinion then I hope he appreciates it, though he should expect no benefit. Your father's bannermen will be arriving and, with them, their sons. You know as well as I that your father may think of making a match between you and one of these young men, even if the wedding isn't held until after the war. Being much in the company of a man like Clegane will not endear you to any of them.”

 

“I'll receive the sons as graciously as I'll receive the fathers but it’s not for them to dictate my company.”

 

Lady Catelyn’s eyes flared and she straightened her spine. “You are a daughter of Winterfell.”

 

“And a dutiful one. Father promised he would make me a match with a man who is brave and gentle and strong. I’m certain he will wish to really know the man’s character before he makes an offer of my hand. We were all deceived by Joffrey .  . ."

 

"Sansa, please spare me even the  _suggestion_  that Sandor Clegane would be a suitable match for you."

  
"I've made no such suggestion. I'm merely saying between King's Landing and our journey here, I came to know him very well. His manner may be a little rough but he is a far better man than most of the knights I met while I was gone. I enjoy his company and I intend to include him in the time I spend with my friends. I know we owe much to our bannermen. I just ask to be allowed to spend some of my time with companions of my own choosing."

  
Lady Catelyn seemed to know she'd have to be satisfied with that. She gave a weary smile. “Sansa, I was so worried about you while you were gone, and then, when we’d heard you’d all disappeared from King’s Landing . . .”

 

Sansa stood and hugged her. “I know. There were many times when I wished you were with me. I’m glad to be home. Please, Mother, be easy about Sandor. He’s a good man. You’ll see.”

 

The look in her mother’s eyes let Sansa know she was holding her tongue because she loved Sansa even if she still disagreed with her. She kissed Sansa’s cheek. “Sleep well. It’s been a long day.”

 

Sansa crawled into bed exhausted. A battle of a different kind would begin when Sandor had to find a place within Winterfell.

 

*

 

The days were busy. Ned met with practically everyone in the castle, and most individually, starting with the families of his missing men. While there was deep concern for the safety of Jory, Cayn, Desmond, and the rest, no one criticized Ned for removing his daughters from the powder keg that was King’s Landing. Sansa could see the relief this brought her father in his face and posture.

 

Lady Catelyn decided it would be best for life to return to normal, or as close to it as could be managed, as soon as possible. For Sansa this meant new gowns, continued lessons with Maester Luwin, time spent with Jeyne and Beth Cassel, and, as a surprise, music lessons with a woman new to Winterfell, Joanne, who Sansa liked right away. While their mother insisted that Arya continue her needlework, she, if not wholly permitted, at least did not prevent Arya from fencing in the yard with her brothers and the other boys.

 

Sansa’s father sent raven after raven into the sky and it was mere days before the first bannerman, Greatjon Umber, rode through Winterfell's gates. After that, it seemed men arrived every day. The ones she knew well greeted Sansa like they’d come to attend a great party, though their jovial facades dropped as they moved to meet with her father behind closed doors. Again and again, there were accusations that Sandor was a turncloak, that he couldn’t be trusted, that he was a Lannister spy. To appease his men, Ned excluded Sandor from those early meetings. Sandor bore it stoically.

 

*

 

A routine developed.

 

“How was your night, my lord?" Sansa had asked Sandor as they walked to the great hall together the morning after their return. Sansa had made a few passes along the corridor intersecting the one to Sandor's room until he appeared.

 

"I wasn't murdered by your kin so I'd say it was a good one."

 

Sansa looked at him from the side of her eye and smiled at his jape.

 

"Is the room to your liking?"

  
"I hear it’s to  _your_  liking."

  
Sansa nodded, unembarrassed by her influence in that situation.

  
In a low voice, Sandor intoned, “Don’t go out of your way, girl. It’ll do more harm than good.”

 

Sansa ignored that and held her head high as they entered the great hall. Her mother looked stern from her place on the dais but Sansa calmly took her time as she moved through the hall, greeting people she knew, introducing Sandor, and generally trying to exude the notion that Sandor’s presence amongst them was no cause for excitement.

 

Sansa was disappointed, of course, by the whispers and stares but she insisted Sandor accompany her every morning and, in the evenings, they played Cyvasse in the great hall, their peaceful and respectful interactions open to anyone who cared to observe them. After a few days, their appearances together didn’t draw much notice at all.

 

*

 

While Ned met with his bannermen, Sandor sparred in the yard or exercised his horse or, to Arya’s annoyance, brushed Nymeria, who sat obediently for him. Sandor didn’t comment one way or another about his exclusion from the increasingly large and boisterous gatherings.

 

Sansa was with him in the yard when her father approached.

 

“Clegane, I’d like you to join us tomorrow. My bannermen and I have some questions about the Lannisters’ forces, if you’d be willing to answer them.” Ned watched Sandor’s face closely.

 

“I’m willing.”

 

Ned nodded. “Remain in the great hall after we break our fast.”

 

*

 

The next morning Sansa rose early and slipped into one of her new gowns. It was such a pleasure to be able to dress like a true lady again. She stole down to Sandor’s room, knocking softly and breathing a sigh of relief when he immediately opened the door.

 

“Little bird. What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up and down the hall for signs of trouble after she’d ducked into his room.

 

“You’re meeting with my father today. I wanted to wish you luck and tell you about his men, if there was anything you wanted to know . . .” Her voice trailed off when she realized he was clad only in breeches and his boots.

 

He smiled at her. “You didn’t offer this same service to them, did you?”

 

Sansa dragged her eyes away from his rippled abdomen. “Of course not.”

 

Sandor smirked and crossed the room to one of his trunks. He pulled out a red woolen tunic with a leather dog's head stitched on the front.

 

"Maybe not that one," Sansa said reflexively before gasping and bringing her fingertips up to cover her mouth. Where were her manners?

 

He stopped and looked confused, turning the tunic this way and that, searching for the source of her objection. "Why not?"

 

Sansa blanched. There was no polite or acceptable way to infer that someone's tunic was just ugly. "I just prefer -"

 

A wicked grin spread across Sandor's face. "You just prefer no tunic, is that it?"

  
Relieved, she grinned back. "I think, whenever you feel like wearing that tunic, you should just take it off again."

  
Sandor’s eyes widened in surprise but he laughed and dropped it back into the chest. He pulled out one in gray. "Is this better?"

 

"It's a Stark color so, yes. You can wear red tomorrow."

 

He smiled as he pulled it over his head, Sansa appreciating the deep cut of his triceps. An instant later he pulled her against him, his tongue found hers and a wave of desire so strong swept through her that her knees buckled.

 

Sandor chuckled. “Next time come earlier.”

 

He set her on her feet and Sansa was mollified to see that he didn’t look quite as steady as he sounded. She knew the hunger in his eyes was mirrored in her own. Their conduct had been irreproachable . . . until now. It wouldn’t do to err when Sandor was finally being included in Winterfell’s plans. He kissed her hard and then they both hurried from the room.

 

*

  
Sansa couldn’t keep away from the great hall that day.

 

When Sandor finally emerged, she asked, “Well?”

 

“Well what, little bird?”

  
"What happened?" Sansa knew her eyes were bright, so eager was she for him to be accepted.

 

"They asked questions and I answered them."

 

Sansa felt a wide smile spread across her face. “What did they want to know?”

 

“If I would fight for the north.”

 

Her smile faded somewhat. “Will you?”

 

He nodded, watching her carefully.

 

Sansa threw herself at him, her arms around his neck, her lips scratched by his beard when she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

 

"Not here, girl," he said without malice as he disentangled himself from her arms.

 

"I miss you," Sansa blurted without thinking.

 

Sandor looked up and down the empty corridor. "I miss you, too, little bird."

 

*

 

After that, Sandor spent his days behind closed doors with the rest of the men, debating options, arguing over tactics, and securing Winterfell while they waited for the rest of the Stark bannermen to arrive.

  
In no time at all, a fortnight had gone by.


	24. Chapter 24

It wasn’t the last of the bannermen who arrived at Winterfell’s gates next; it was Jory and several of the other guards. Wyl and Heward had been killed in the fight to leave King’s Landing and Varly had succumbed to injuries while they struggled to return home. Relief, sadness, anger, and a renewed sense of purpose flooded the castle.

 

The great hall was abuzz as the men told their lord and the others about their flight and compared the news they’d heard with what had reached Winterfell.

 

While everyone tried to talk over everyone else, Maester Luwin brought a scroll into the hall and handed it to Ned. Sansa held her breath, fearful of more bad news. Her father’s long face grew even more serious and tension rippled out from his chair on the dais.

 

He stood and silence fell. “Lord Renly is dead. Lord Stannis asks us to join him in his attack on King’s Landing.”

 

Pandemonium broke out. The great hall doors seemed to be shut for days after that.

 

***

 

With so many men coming to Winterfell, it was time for Yoren and his recruits to leave. Sandor accompanied Sansa as she went to bid them farewell. They'd been meant to leave days before but a few of them had fallen ill and Ned had agreed they should delay their departure until the men were well.

 

Just before they entered the courtyard, Sansa was surprised to find Jeyne in a doorway having a hushed conversation with Jack. Why isn't he with the others?

 

"Certainly a word from you, m'lady . . ."

 

"Lord Stark -" Jeyne turned at the sound of footsteps. "Oh! Sansa!" She ignored Sandor. "I'm glad you've come. Jack has just been inquiring after any positions here at Winterfell."

 

Jack hitched up the corner of his mouth, displeased at having his aim so openly declared, but then his eyes grew desperate and his words tumbled out. "Lady Sansa, I can think of nowhere I'd rather serve than in the north. Everyone knows the Starks are honorable, especially your good father -"

 

Sansa really didn't want to hear more. "That's very generous of you but the Wall is north and, there, you could be of service to the entire realm -"

 

"I worked as a tanner's assistant before, m'lady, and, surely, your fighting men need fine boiled leather. With a war coming, supplies will scarce and I could help -"

 

"No doubt your talents are considerable but the men of the Night's Watch are ever in need of -"

 

"If Winterfell can take on an armorer, why not a tanner, m'lady? Surely one more man -"

 

"I beg your pardon. An armorer?"

 

"The boy with the bull helmet. Your father asked him to stay. He fixed it with Yoren."

 

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. Why would Father ask Gendry to stay? Mikken's never needed an assistant . . . "I'm sure my father had his reasons."

 

Jack reached for Sansa's hands but Sandor reached for his sword and Jack was left to thread his fingers together in a beseeching gesture. "Lady Sansa, the Wall . . . the Watch . . . it's not for a man like me."

 

"You've made a commitment to the Watch. You should keep it."

 

Jeyne looked at Sansa like she was being cruel.

 

Jack dropped his hands to his sides and pulled his head back, affronted. "And the boy didn't?"

 

Sansa didn't feel Gendry's sad history, if not already known, was hers to peddle out. "If what you seek is a place at Winterfell, it would be wise not to complain about my father's decisions. Have you spoken to my father?"

 

"A war’s coming! I can make a leather so thick most arrows will just bounce off -”

 

“Have you spoken to my father?”

 

His voice thick with resentment, Jack said, “He’s hardly been seen since we came here. Too busy to bother with the likes of -”

 

“My father is busy but, as far as I can tell, you’ve only asked Jeyne to speak on your behalf. If you can’t put your request to him yourself -”

 

Jack’s face twisted. “If he prefers to keep unapprenticed boys and turncloak warriors in his employ rather than honest working men -"

 

Sandor grabbed Jack by the shoulder and began to drag him into the courtyard. "Enough of this. Enough of you. Yoren!" he called.

 

"He didn't have to be so rough with him," Jeyne said.

 

Sansa turned to her shocked. "He insulted my father."

 

Jeyne looked uneasy at that. "He's just afraid, I think."

 

"Jack is not an honorable man, no matter how pretty his compliments. Surely you can see that."

 

Jeyne frowned. "Why can’t he stay? The men _will_ need boiled leather.”

 

“If he wanted to stay, he should have spoken to my father, not tried to flatter us into securing a position for him.”

 

Jeyne looked out the doorway. Sandor was gesturing at Jack, apparently advising Yoren to keep an eye on him.

 

Jeyne sighed. “Nobody ever gets what they want.”

 

Sansa looked at her friend with pity, her mind going to Willard. “Sometimes they do.”

 

“I wish everyone could always be happy.”

 

It was Sansa’s turn to sigh.  A year and a half ago, she would have felt the same way. "I know, but sometimes you have to do more than wish."

 

Jeyne didn’t answer. She just watched the men and boys trudge out of the courtyard on their long trip to the Wall.

 

*

 

Three days later, Sansa awoke to a drizzly, chill morning. She dressed in a woolen gown the color of snow and made her way to the hall to break her fast. Despite the weather, she could hear shouts and noise from the yard. She sighed. The men were diligent in their practice, Sandor among them, and as the last of her father’s bannermen arrived at Winterfell, the training yard was always full. She looked out a window but did not see Sandor’s towering form amongst the crowd. Then she remembered he was going to join a party inspecting Winterfell’s defenses. She sighed again. It was unlikely she would see him until the evening meal.

 

Sansa broke her fast on a warm broth and bread smeared thickly with preserves. Arya was shoveling in eggs next to her, her eyes on Gendry who sat in the very back of the room. Sansa wasn’t sure she understood the connection but her father seemed to know him. Gendry's new position as Mikken's assistant put him in range of Arya’s attention whether he wanted it or not. Sansa’s wager with Sandor still stood and she had yet to see anything besides antagonism on Arya’s side. She mused on which room she’d have Sandor moved into when he officially became a Stark retainer and smiled at the thought.

 

“What are you doing today?” Arya asked as she cut into a rasher of bacon.

 

“I have my music lesson with Joanne. What will you be doing?”

 

Her sister gave her a long-suffering look. “I have lessons with Maester Luwin but then I’m going riding. Do you want to come? Bran said he may come, and Rickon, too.”

 

“In the rain?” Sansa cast a doubtful look at the gray sky through the windows.

 

“Yes,” Arya answered impatiently.

 

The thought of being outside in dreary, wet weather did not appeal to her. “No, thank you, though maybe I’ll join you if the weather clears.”

 

After Sansa left the hall, she made her way to Joanne’s room and tapped softly at the door.

 

Joanne answered, her nose looking red and her eyes watery. “Oh, Lady Sansa, I do apologize. Would you mind terribly if we postponed today’s lesson? I’ve come down with the most dreadful cold.”

 

“No, not at all.” Sansa wished her a speedy recovery and, after asking if she needed anything, wandered away. She’d been looking forward to the lesson. She liked Joanne very much and enjoyed talking with her as much as she enjoyed the music they played.

 

Now what will I do? Sansa wondered. She considered finding Arya but then remembered she would be in lessons for the next few hours. She wasn’t in the mood to read a book or take up her sewing. She wandered the corridors hoping some activity would suggest itself. She found herself near Sandor’s room and wished he were available to talk to. She missed their murmured conversations on horseback and the gentle yet firm way he’d hold her. Footsteps approached and Sansa forced herself along the hall, prepared to look serene in the face of whoever was approaching.

 

She started when she saw it was Sandor.

 

“Little bird,” he said, apparently as surprised by her appearance as she was by his.

 

“I thought you had a lesson,” he said as she said, “I thought you were out with the men doing inspections.”

 

“Cayn’s horse threw a shoe and the rain’s picked up so we’ll go later in the day.”

 

"Oh,” Sansa said, fighting to hide her excitement at the possibility of spending some time with him.

 

“What about your lesson?”

 

“Joanne has a cold. She asked if we could postpone”

 

“Oh.” He said the word flatly but the air between them practically crackled as they both realized they were temporarily free of obligations yet thought to be elsewhere by others.

 

Sandor walked the few feet to his door, swung it open, and stood to the side. For a moment, Sansa was reminded of the many times he’d stood outside her door in the Tower of the Hand. Relieved that he was here with her now, she stepped inside his room.

 

*

 

Sansa was pleased to find he’d made himself at home. To her immediate left was an empty fireplace. Alynor’s picture was on the mantle beneath the Clegane shield, much as it had been in King’s Landing. Across from her were two windows that faced the road leading to the front of the castle. Beneath them were trunks. On the far wall to her right was Sandor’s bed. Opposite the windows were a wash basin and a table and chairs.

 

"Are you comfortable here?” she asked.

 

He looked over the room. “I am.”

 

Sansa smiled at him. “I’m glad for it.”

 

“Wine?” he offered, turning a hand toward the table. He sounded tired.

 

“Please.”

 

He moved to pour her some and Sansa began to pull out a chair. He stopped her by putting a hand on her elbow. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down, guiding her into his lap. It was better than slipping into a warm bath after a long day in the cold. Sansa smiled as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his forehead on the back of her shoulder. He took a long, slow breath and murmured, “Little bird.”

 

Sansa shifted so she could get her arms around him. “You’ve been working so hard. I know it can’t have been easy, especially in the beginning.”

 

He gave her a small, weary smile and then poured wine for them both, taking a sip from his cup. Then he leaned in and kissed her gently.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Sansa said quietly when they parted.

 

“Mm.” Sandor gathered her up and carried her to the bed, laying her gently on thick blankets, and pulling her slippers off her feet. He yanked off his boots, undid his sword belt, and shed his light armor so he could he stretch out beside her. For a moment, he closed his eyes.

 

Sansa rolled toward him and covered his mouth with hers. He started but then wrapped her in his arms and sighed.

 

She ran her fingers through his hair and gave him a small smile. They kissed again, and again, and began to melt into each other, Sansa shivering as Sandor’s hand moved down and cupped her hip. Their hands squeezed and pressed and rubbed and slid over curves and under clothes and the air around them grew warm and humid.

 

Sandor traced a fingertip over Sansa’s flesh along the neckline of her gown before lowering his lips to the tops of her breasts and kissing her flushed skin, the dichotomy of his soft and scaled half-burned mouth sending prickles down her spine. He nudged her gown off one shoulder as he kissed the side of her neck down to her newly-exposed skin but the bodice was fitted and didn’t allow for much movement. His large hands played over her back as he loosened the ribbon that cinched the dress tightly under her bust.

 

“Lay on your back and pull your arms out of the sleeves.”

 

Sansa did but then didn’t know what to do with her hands so she clutched the fabric over her breasts. She looked at him and waited. Sandor moved over her and knelt, his knees on either side of her legs. He looked at her with satisfaction. The corner of his mouth hitched up and he reached out and took her hands and laid them gently at her sides. His eyes moved over her and then he pulled her gown low enough to expose her breasts to him, a grin spreading across his face. He made a pleased noise. Sansa expected him to touch her or, she hoped, kiss and suckle her as he had done before so she was surprised when he said, “Touch them.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

He took hold of her elbows and drew her upright. He sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap so she was straddling him. Sandor cupped one of her breasts while his other hand pressed against her back. He seemed to be feeling the weight of it even as he leaned in and nipped at Sansa’s earlobe. In a husky voice he said, “That night. In King’s Landing.” He kissed the side of her neck. “I said I wished I could see you. Do you remember?”

 

Sansa blushed. She did remember. Her room had been nearly pitch black and Sandor had been a dark shape amongst the other shadows. He certainly could not have seen her any more distinctly but he wanted to see her now and she wanted to please him. “I remember.”

 

He grinned and let go of her. Sansa cupped her breasts and let her head fall back so her hair cascaded down to her waist. She felt Sandor’s hips press upward as his hands tightened around her waist. Even without looking, Sansa knew his eyes were all over her breasts and she laughed in surprise when his tongue suddenly flickered across her nipple. He chuckled and did it again on the other side.

 

It felt good to please him. She wrapped her arms and legs tight around him and kissed him hard, her tongue finding its way into his mouth as he pulled her gown down lower. Sandor helped her out of his lap and guided her onto her back. Then he pulled away and finished undressing her. Sansa began to reach her arms out to him but then thought better of it. “You, too,” she said, eyeing his tunic. He wrenched it over his head and made short work of stripping away his breeches before falling into her arms, the feel of his bare skin against hers making her arch against him and moan in delight. “Little bird,” he murmured, kissing her everywhere.

 

“I want to feel you like I did that night . . .”

 

“How?” he asked thickly, his hands busy making their way under her smallclothes and gripping her hips.

 

Sansa pressed up, startling herself when she found him right there. Sandor shifted his weight to his forearms and returned the pressure.

 

“Oh,” Sansa said, feeling overwhelmed and out of breath.

 

Sandor rocked his hips back and forth, dragging the firm head of his manhood along the cleft of her woman’s place in such a way that Sansa thought she might simply fizzle away with the pleasure of it. After a few moments, though, it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel him. She reached between them and began to tug at her smallclothes.

 

“Girl . . . ?”

 

“I want to feel you.”

 

He sat back and watched as she divested herself of her last garment, his eyes drinking in her naked form. He reached out and drew his thumb over her moist flesh. Sansa sensed his hesitancy but the desire to feel him had surpassed being a want and was now a need. She cupped her breasts, let her head loll to the side, and moaned as his thumb circled over her sensitive nub.

 

“Fuck me,” he muttered, lowering himself over her again and pressing into her, his breath ragged in her ear. Sansa pressed back and felt him part her flesh just slightly.

 

“Please,” she murmured. “Without these.” She reached down and pulled at his smallclothes.

 

“Little bird . . .”

 

She heard the struggle in his voice.

 

“When did you have your moonblood last?” he asked after a moment.

 

Sansa’s mind felt utterly incapable of calculating anything. “A se’en night ago? I think. Or thereabouts.”

 

After a pause Sandor moved off the bed and returned completely naked. Sansa was breathless at the sight of him. He made his way over her and paused between her legs. His long hair swept against her cheek as he kissed her, a strangled noise escaping her lips as his flesh suddenly made contact with hers. Sansa froze as he repeated his earlier motions, except this time he was just grazing her skin. She moved to press against him and he moved away.

 

“Just a little harder?”

 

Sandor let out a breath and pushed against her, parting her, making her gasp as she felt her flesh separate to take him in. He moved up and over her apex, taking himself in hand to make small circles against her. Sansa moaned and tilted her hips, hoping to draw him lower. As wonderful as he felt there, a deeper part of her body was calling for contact and Sansa responded to it by instinct.

 

“Don’t. Don’t tease me, little bird. I can give you pleasure like I did before.” His voice was thick and he broke contact with her and began to move down the bed but Sansa tightened her knees against his sides and cupped his cheek.

 

“Let me just feel you a little more. Please. You feel so . . .” and she brought her knees forward and his torso with them until she felt the firm and sticky pressure of him against her woman’s place. She pressed against him and this time when she parted to accept him, he slid into her just a little. Sansa’s breath hitched. The desire to draw him into her fully was still there, beckoning, but Sansa was distracted by the new feeling of having his body joining with hers.

 

She felt stupid for having to ask but she’d expected pain and, there being none, she said, “Are you in me?”

 

“Just barely,” Sandor answered in a tight voice.

 

Sansa reached down and took hold of Sandor’s hips, guiding him into her a little more deeply. She felt she was scarcely breathing, so fully was she concentrating on everything she was feeling. She knew he was in her more deeply now but still wasn’t sure how much so, though she was certain she could feel herself around him. She wiggled a little and Sandor grunted.

 

“Sansa,” he rasped. “I can’t. Get on top. You can control the depth.” And just like that he was gone and Sansa felt gutted. Sandor had rolled off of her and onto his back, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes as though he had a terrible headache.

 

Sansa crawled on top of him and, after a few moments of trying, aligned herself with him and sank down just a bit. Sandor’s brow was creased in deep concentration. She thought to ask him if he was alright but the feel of him deeper inside her commanded her attention. Her hands gripping his shoulders, she pushed against him some more. She felt stretched and full and then, suddenly, a spike of pain made her gasp and push up from her knees. The sting was so unexpected it brought tears to her eyes. Was that it? Sandor had taken hold of her forearms and was looking at her intensely, almost angrily.

 

“Are you alright, girl?”

 

“I . . . it just hurt for a moment.”

 

Sandor looked like he was going to argue so Sansa said, “Let me try again. Maybe it won’t hurt this time.”

 

Sandor’s grip on her tightened and she gingerly lowered herself on him again, hoping the shock of discomfort was past. But no, she got to a certain point and the burn and sting returned and she sucked in her breath through her teeth, causing Sandor to lift her off of him by her elbows.

 

She lay next to him, a torrent of frustration making her eyes water. What is wrong with me? Isn’t it only supposed to hurt once?

 

Sandor said not a word but waves of something like irritation rolled off him. Rain pattered against the windows and the warm air they’d generated seemed to dissipate. But Sansa was not willing to accept failure. She could have told herself it was the impending war that was urging her forward but it wasn't. A rare opportunity for privacy had presented itself and the time had come to act on the inevitable. Since Sandor had first kissed her on Sevenmas night, they'd been grappling toward each other. It was useless to think it shouldn't happen, not when Sansa wanted it to happen. She was scared but determined to go on.

 

“I want to try again but . . . not that way.” Sansa could not inflict pain on herself any more than she could inflict it on others.

 

“Little bird -”

 

Sansa rolled onto her side and draped her leg over his, her breasts pressing up against his arm, her fingers teasing the hair on his chest. She leaned over and kissed him, moving on top of him until his arms wrapped around her and he rolled himself on top of her.

 

Her sore flesh gave way as he pressed against her and slipped within her folds. With a groan he moved forward and Sansa tensed, bracing for the pain. When it came, she gave a whine and tried to slide upwards to relieve the pressure but she was trapped beneath him. Sandor pulled back but didn't withdraw. After a moment he pressed forward again and, just when Sansa thought she couldn't take the pain anymore, that she’d never be able to go through with this, that Sandor would have to find a woman capable of pleasing him in all the ways she failed to, the pain went away. Sandor groaned and slowly pushed his entire length into her. Sansa gritted her teeth and clung to him, rigid with stress and discomfort. The sharp sting had passed but the sensation of being stretched apart was still uncomfortable.

 

“Relax, little bird. It’ll help,” Sandor said, though he didn't sound at all relaxed himself.

 

Sansa tried and found that it did help a little but then Sandor pulled back and the drag on her flesh caused her entire body to tense up again. His thrusts were slow and deep and, aside from his breathing, he was quiet. Sansa was unsure if he was enjoying himself and pulled her knees back, recalling from somewhere that that allowed the man deeper penetration. The shock of it made her choke and Sandor paused again. “I’m alright,” she assured him, and he resumed pumping his hips, moving a little more quickly now and occasionally bumping against something inside her, which didn't hurt but brought her no pleasure, either.

 

Sansa lay still and tried to relax, but she was nagged by a solitary question: Why doesn't this feel as good as I thought it would?

 

Just when she thought she couldn't be more overwhelmed, Sandor’s breathing became ragged, his thrusts grew harder, and suddenly he arched back and groaned, pausing for a moment before thrusting into her a few more times and hanging his head, his chest heaving and a sheen of sweat showing on his shoulders. He withdrew, which was its own source of discomfort, and fell onto the bed beside her.

 

Sansa lay quite still, the air cold against her bare skin now that Sandor’s body was no longer keeping her warm. She pulled at one of the blankets, finding that even that motion seemed to make an uncomfortable sensation resonate within her woman’s place. She sat up and was mildly surprised to see there was only a dab of blood on the sheet.

 

She turned to say something about it to Sandor and found him watching her intently. “There’s -”

 

“It’s fine, little bird,” he said roughly. He half sat up and yanked a blanket back over both of them, pulling Sansa down so her head rested on his arm.

 

It felt strange to be so close to him, and to have been so close, and yet still feel leagues away. His arm was around her but he was not holding her. Never had Sansa felt so ill at ease, she who could make conversation with nearly anyone. Her mind bubbled away but no solid thoughts formed, only the sense that she had crossed a gulf and was now in a strange land where she had no idea how to behave. Sandor’s silence was not helping.

 

After a while, he said, “Your lesson would have long been over by now,” and made to rise from the bed. Sansa watched as he crossed to his wash basin and cleaned himself. When he was done, he laid out another wash cloth for her and she forced herself off the bed, feeling awkward to be doing something so mundane now that she was so different. Sandor dressed while she washed the stickiness off her woman’s place and thighs and he strapped on his sword belt and light armor as she dressed. Sansa tried to neaten up her hair as best she could and, when she turned, she was struck to find not the Sandor who teased her and made her laugh, but the fierce and frowning Hound behind her. He didn't smile as he bent down to kiss her.

 

Then he opened the door, checked that the hall was empty, and conducted her through the castle toward the public areas.

 

Sansa felt her face must be the deepest red. “Will I see you at the evening meal?” she asked, hoping to kindle some warmth between them.

 

“If the inspection is over by then.”

 

She nodded vaguely. Some servants came along the hall. “Good day.”

 

“Good day, Lady Sansa.” And with that he turned on his heel and left her feeling lost in her own home.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible ( _possible_ , but not guaranteed) that this story will be taking a brief hiatus until after the holidays. Why? I'm participating in a San/San gift exchange and I need to devote some time to the piece I'm writing for that. So, you'll definitely see *something* from me between now and New Year's, though it may not be chapter 26. Just thought I'd give you a heads up instead of disappearing for a few (more) weeks. That said, I _truly_ appreciate the enthusiasm shown for Seven More. Your comments are my lemon cakes. :-) I think about this fic _all the time_ so it's entirely possible I'll ~~shirk my RL responsibilities~~ find time to work on the next chapter sooner rather than later. Just wanted to let you know. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Happy Thanksgiving and Hanukkah! -- SB :-)

Sansa didn't know what to do with herself. She paced back and forth, wringing her hands. _Did I do something wrong? Was I . . ._ A long list of undesirable descriptors ran through her mind. Wanton. Pushy. Too eager. Not eager enough. Just _bad_ at it.Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. She was so mortified that something in her conduct could have put him off that she didn't want to be seen. She hid in her room, restless at not knowing what Sandor thought of her. _We’ll talk about it_ , she kept telling herself. Sansa felt fairly certain he wouldn’t abandon her but in the privacy of his room it had been easy to pretend that their actions wouldn't ripple out past the door. She'd given him her _maidenhead_. A gift she could only give once. Sansa was breathless over the enormity of what she’d done. _They’d_ done. She'd wanted to do it, of course, but had _he_? He'd . . . gone through with it but had he _wanted_ to or had he simply given her what he thought _she_ wanted? Her face blazed anew. She’d been so obvious but, even so, she couldn't quite feel wrong for wanting to have that experience with him. She stopped, her mind flooded with images and sensations. His chest above her, the feel of his hips between her inner thighs, the way he'd grabbed her elbows and lifted her off of him when . . .  Sansa became aware of tears on her cheeks and wiped them away. _Was it my reaction that drove him away?_ She was too crushed even to resume her pacing. She sank into a chair as her jaw began to shake. When the first sob escaped her throat, she gave herself over to it and bawled until her stomach hurt. How had she made such a _mess_ of everything? She'd envisioned her first time as being romantic and sweet and . . . not the end of what should have been a beginning. Sansa tried to reassure herself that Sandor still cared about her. _But what if he doesn’t want me like_ that _anymore, now that he knows I’m . . ._ And the list of undesirable descriptors ran through her head again.

 

In the end, Sansa arrived early to the great hall. For better or for worse, she wanted to know her fate. The agony of ignorance was too much to bear. To her disappointment, Sandor wasn't there. Her eyes searched him out every moment and her fretfulness increased as men who were not him filled the hall. Her spirits sank even lower as the food was served. Surely the inspection party would have made every effort not to miss the meal. Sansa worked hard to keep her disappointment from showing but knew she was failing at it miserably. She attempted to make conversation with Arya but her attention was so scattered that eventually Arya got tired of repeating herself and talked to Bran exclusively.

 

Suddenly, the doors of the hall opened and the men who'd inspected the defenses came in to calls from friends and orders for more food. Sansa stared, her heart racing as she waited for Sandor to enter. The men filtered to various tables but Sandor did not appear. Sansa sank back in her chair, wretched. As soon as she could politely manage it, she fled the great hall.

 

Alone in her room, tears streaking her cheeks again, countless excuses rejected, she could not persuade herself that he was doing anything other than avoiding her.

 

*

 

"Did you and Clegane have a fight?" Arya asked the next day as they broke their fast.

 

"No. Why?"

 

"Because he's out in the yard yelling at everyone."

 

Sansa's eyes shifted to the side guiltily. _If only he'd talk to me._ Now that she'd had time to calm down, she was certain things couldn't be as bleak as she'd feared. If she was in any way lacking, humiliating as it was to consider, surely he could teach her. It was frustrating her and making her a little angry, truth be told, to be ignored. She decided to seek him out but he was seen riding in a froth toward Wintertown and didn't return the next day. The third day he came back but stalked around in a black mood and was generally avoided by everyone. He stared openly at Sansa during meals but any time she tried to return his gaze, he looked away.

 

Sansa had not been in bed long, resolving that this nonsense would end the next day if she had to ride to Wintertown or the Wall or wherever herself, when someone knocked on her door.

 

"Sansa?" It was Arya.

 

Sansa got out of bed and threw on a robe. She opened her door and ushered her sister into the room. "What is it?"

 

"Clegane wants to talk to you."

 

Sansa's brow creased. "So why doesn't he just come talk to me?"

 

"Because he doesn't know he wants to."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"He's down in the great hall drinking all our wine. He's going to get himself in trouble. Father's already mad because he took himself off to Wintertown without permission."

 

"Did you talk to him?"

 

"I told him to stop being a baby and come talk to you."

 

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. "And what did he say?"

 

"He told me to bugger off and mind my own business."

 

"And then you came up here?"

 

"No, I told him he was only going to make things worse by avoiding you."

 

"Arya . . ."

 

"What? It's true."

 

Sansa pressed her lips together, thinking. "Did he seem angry?"

 

"Well, he wasn't very nice to me."

 

"I meant with me. Did he seem angry with _me_?"

 

"No. He's _pathetic_ with you," she said with a roll of her eyes.

 

Sansa favored her sister with an admonishing look but remained quiet. Part of her felt badly that Sandor was upset but another part of her knew she'd done nothing wrong; at least not during the past three days. She didn't wish to prolong the tension between them but, despite resolving earlier to find him, she felt it should fall to him to reestablish contact. She'd not chase after him. Not when he'd made it clear he didn't want to talk to her. "How did you leave things with him?"

 

"I told Nymeria not to let him leave the hall."

 

Sansa's door swung open and Sandor ducked into her room, Nymeria at his heels. "Too bad your little pet likes me, she-wolf."

 

"Nymeria!" Arya chided.

 

Nymeria looked at her happily and gave a chipper bark.

 

"Bad wolf," Arya said, frowning.

 

Nymeria barked again and trotted out of the room, Arya following her.

 

Sandor stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing at Sansa and looking spent, before pushing the door shut. "Little bird . . ."

 

"You _left_ me!" Her face grew hot and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She'd planned to be calm when they spoke and here she was, blurting out her hurt feelings already.

 

"I didn't leave you. I just went to Wintertown."

 

"Why?"

 

He glowered down at her. The corner of his mouth twitched.

 

" _Why?_ " she insisted. "And don't sing me some song about the joys of horseback riding.”

 

"I had to get away," he answered stiffly.

 

Sansa forced the tears not to spill out of her eyes by sheer will alone. She collected herself for a moment before saying in a voice far calmer than she felt, "From me?"

 

"Sansa . . ." He looked deeply irritated. "The other day . . . that wasn't what I wanted."

 

It was as though he’d punched a hole right through her. She gaped at him, feeling like everything inside her was on the verge of spilling out.

 

"For you, I mean. I meant for it to be better." He looked away with a scowl.

 

"Better?"

 

He turned back and grabbed hold of her forearms, bending so his nose was practically touching hers. "I've wanted you for so long. Have thought about us for _so long_. It should have been like a song. Like you would have wanted. Not . . ." He tossed his hand out in a frustrated gesture.

 

"I did want it. You thought it was bad?"

 

He closed his eyes for a second. "No - that's not -"

 

"You don't want to do it again?"

 

For the briefest moment, surprise lit his grey eyes. "No, I want to. You know I want to. I didn't think _you_ would."

 

Relief flooded her. A smile threatened to break out across her face.

 

“You thought I wouldn't want to?” He sounded dumbfounded.

 

Sansa felt the blood rush into her cheeks. “I thought . . . you were disappointed,” she mumbled.

 

Sandor looked at her like he couldn't comprehend what she was saying. “Disappointed?”

 

Sansa had not realized how hard it would be to say some of these things but she forced the words out, shame scorching her as she explained. “You might have thought I was wanton.”

 

“Wanton?”

 

Sansa exhaled raggedly in exasperation and wished he’d stop repeating her last words. “Yes, because I . . . was . . .” _Oh gods, don’t make me say it!_

 

“You were everything I ever wanted - believe that - but I hurt you and -” He stopped speaking and glared at the wall. “I _hurt_ you!” Now he turned his angry gaze to the floor and glared at the stone like he wanted to make it bleed.

 

"I -"

                                                                                                          

"Don't tell me it didn't hurt, girl. That _I_ didn't hurt you."

 

"Well -" She couldn't deny it. She'd been so surprised by the sharpness of the pain that it had never occurred to her to conceal it.

 

"Well."

 

"I'm sorry -"

 

" _No_. Don’t say you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. I could have made it better. Could have tried to hurt you less. Made sure you were ready or . . ." He shook his head, searching for words.

 

"Or you could have talked to me instead of leaving me to wonder what I did to offend you."

 

Sandor's jaw fell open and his head pulled back. " _Offend_ me? Sansa . . . " He stepped toward her and knelt down on one knee, drawing her on to his thigh. His arms encircled her and he rested his forehead against her shoulder, his face hidden.  "If I had known you'd wanted to . . .” He took a breath. “Sansa, if you’d had a weapon that day, you could have killed me ten times over before I’d even thought to reach for my sword.”

 

"It was something of a surprise for me, too," she murmured, wrapping her arms around him. It felt so good to be held by him that for a moment she just let herself enjoy it. “Why didn’t you come talk to me?”

 

Sansa felt his warm breath on her arm as he exhaled. “What could I have said that would have changed anything?”

 

Gently, Sansa replied, “Well, anything would have been better than wondering if you meant to put me aside.”

 

Sandor looked up at her, his brows drawn together in a pained expression. “Is that what you think of me?”

 

“I didn’t know what to think so I suppose I thought the worst.” Now that he had returned to her, it seemed silly that she’d ever thought he wouldn’t.

 

Sandor shifted and Sansa stood up. He rose and pulled her close, resting his chin against the top of her head. She breathed in the woodsy, masculine, and, currently, alcohol-laced scent of him. After a long moment, he mumbled, “Let me make it up to you,” before adding in a brittle voice, “if you’ll have me.”

 

“There’s nothing to -”

 

“There _is_. You gave me your maiden’s gift and I deserted you for three days.” He sounded disgusted with himself. “I want you to know it can be better. That I can . . . love you without hurting you.”

 

Sansa’s heart skittered in her chest. He hadn’t said he loved her but . . . he nearly had.

 

“What are your plans for the next few days?”

 

Sansa told him her schedule.

 

Sandor nodded, looking grave. "Will you come to my room? I’ll let you know when after Cassel decides the shifts.”

 

Sansa fought to keep an enormous grin from overtaking her face. Butterflies swooped around in her stomach. "Yes," she said.

 

Sandor still looked grim but he nodded, determined. "This time, I'll do things right."

 

*

 

The next several days saw Sansa and Sandor fall back into their routine of arriving in the great hall together in the morning and playing Cyvasse together on the nights Sandor wasn’t assigned a post. Sansa was obligated to spend time with the sons of her father's bannermen but, whenever possible, she had Sandor at her side. He didn't ask about her outings with the young men but Sansa always took his arm with a feeling of relief and he seemed to notice and be satisfied. For her part, knowing that another opportunity to lay with him was coming, but not knowing exactly when, made her giddy. It was a constant struggle to appear modest and not dazzlingly happy in Sandor’s company but, even with her best efforts, Sansa felt she was continually beaming.

 

Therefore, it was like a splash of cold water when, one morning, her mother commented, “I thought we might be rid of him,” as she eyed Sandor, who was seated at a lower table.

 

Sansa frowned. “Why would you think that?”

 

“You know he deserted his post again and went to Wintertown for a night.”

 

“He came back. I believe he talked to Father about it and Father has forgiven him.”

 

“Yes, it appears he has.”

 

“And you? You won’t forgive him?” Sansa knew that, over the years, other young men-at-arms had sometimes misbehaved but they’d never earned the commentary of Lady Catelyn.

 

“Duty is important, Sansa. We can’t just run off because something isn’t to our liking.”

 

“He’s done as much as our other men-at-arms. Surely you can allow that to be said for him.”

 

Her mother didn’t look pleased but she replied, “I’ll admit I’m surprised. He’s not quite as rough as I remember him being when he was here with the Lannisters.”

 

“He feels he’s treated well here.”

 

“As well he might, with the favor you and your father show him. I hear he’s been given senior guard duties now.”

 

“He’s a respected fighter and he’s led men before. You’re determined to think him a brute.”

 

With a look, her mother answered, “On the contrary, Sansa, every time I've observed you together, he’s been rather gentle with you. You seem to inspire a measure of gallantry in him.” Her tone suggested this was not desirable. “Others have commented to me that they, too, are surprised by his calmer demeanor, though they’ve been kind enough not to mention how liberal you are with your attention to him.”

 

Sansa ignored that last part. “Mother, why don’t you get to know him? We could talk together over a meal.”

 

“The Lady of Winterfell doesn’t dine with turncloak warriors.”

 

“Perhaps not but she does dine with her daughter.”

 

“Maybe you’d prefer to spend your time with Daniel Umber.”

 

“I have. Just yesterday we went riding together.” Daniel was tall and muscular like his father the Greatjon, but he had none of his sire’s spark and verve and Sansa found him dull in every way. He answered her questions readily enough but left the burden of conversation to Sansa and, after a while, she’d tired of soliciting his thoughts and opinions when he did not ask about hers. After she stopped leading the conversation, he commented that Sansa was as pretty as his father had said she would be. Sansa thanked him for his kindness but recognized the comment for what it was; an inducement for her to pick up the thread of conversation again. Had he asked her opinion on something, it might have worked, but, instead, the meaningless compliment only served to make Sansa miss Sandor’s directness. Still, she couldn’t be a poor hostess. Rather than asking Daniel more about himself, she took to pointing out various features of the countryside and inquiring about similarities between Winterfell and Last Hearth. They chatted indifferently after that but, since Sansa’s heart was elsewhere, she bore it easily enough.

 

"What about Benfred Tallhart?" her mother asked.

 

Sansa refrained from making a face. _He_ had chosen to be direct.

 

"You spend a lot of time with the Hound," he'd said.

 

"I do," Sansa had replied. She saw no need to justify her actions.

 

"He's not sworn to your house."

 

"He's not sworn to any house."

 

"My father finds it very strange . . .," he said, looking at her expectantly.

 

"I suppose it is. Would your father be more at ease if I asked Sandor Clegane to become my sworn shield?"

 

Benfred picked up on her challenge immediately and was irked. He had nothing to say about it, though, and the rest of their time together was spent in sullenness on his part and in boredom on hers. He'd not sought her out since and she didn't miss him.

 

“Benfred didn’t enjoy my company any more than I enjoyed his.”

 

Lady Catelyn would not be deterred. "Cley Cerwyn is a nice young man. Polite. Reasonable."

 

"He is. I like him very much."

 

Catelyn seemed relieved. "Will you be spending more time with him?"

 

"We're going for a walk tomorrow."

 

Her mother kept her delight in check. "I'm pleased to hear it."

 

Cley had beautiful blue eyes that saved him from being otherwise plain. His ready smile, sense of humor, kindness, and intelligence were all in his favor. His personality had been a surprise. Sansa remembered him as being quiet and shy when he'd come to Winterfell before and he was so often in the company of her brothers that she didn’t know him well. Cley was easy company now and it wasn’t long before Sansa learned of his attachment to another. She understood that he'd been encouraged to spend time with her just as she'd been encouraged to spend time with him. It was a relief to them both to discover their mutual romantic disinterest. With that expectation rendered irrelevant, they both relaxed and had spent a pleasant afternoon together.

 

"I would like it very much if you would get to know Sandor better, though."

 

Her mother exhaled.

 

"I've done as you asked. I've spent time with our bannermen's sons, though, truly, I can’t see why Father would offer any of them my hand. They’re already sworn to us.”

 

“Their faithful service -”

 

“We’re grateful for their faithful service of course, but they serve us because they were _born_ to it. They do it without thinking. If they lived somewhere else, they’d be sworn to another house.”

 

Lady Catelyn drew herself up straight. “Sansa! That is unworthy. You’re a daughter of Winterfell –”

 

“I know but, Mother, haven’t you ever thought about it? People call Sandor a turncloak and for what? Because he _chose_ to serve us? Doesn’t choice make a bond stronger?”

 

Her mother frowned. “He’s made himself a sellsword.”

 

“No, he hasn’t. He won the tourney held in Father’s honor when we first went to King’s Landing. He has plenty of gold. Besides, if that was all he wanted, who has more gold than the Lannisters?”

 

“Then why is he here?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at Sansa as though expecting an admission.

 

“Because he _wants_ to be, and people, _our_ people, despised him for it at first.”

 

“He had a duty to the Lannisters. He was honor-bound to serve them and what did he do? He stole away in the night – I’m grateful he brought you home, Sansa, never doubt that – but he’s proven himself untrustworthy.”

 

Sansa was disappointed in her mother and it hurt deeply. She reached over and took her mother’s hand. Gently, she said, “You say you’re grateful but you won’t speak to him. You won’t acknowledge the service he’s rendered to our family and our house.”

 

“Sansa, a house is only as strong as the loyalty of the people who serve it. One action -”

 

“He never chose to serve the Lannisters. He was born to it because his grandfather was the kennelmaster at Casterly Rock and saved Lord Tytos from a lion. Sandor was born into his allegiance the same way our bannermen are born into service to Winterfell.”

 

Lady Catelyn tipped her head and gave Sansa an annoyed look from under her brow. “Be that as it may, your father may choose to wed you to a northern house.”

 

“I could have been queen, once. _You_ supported my match with Joffrey even before Father did, and now you’re suggesting I make myself acceptable to the sons of noble but minor houses. Surely my hand is still an enticement and worthy of consideration by the great houses. An alliance outside of the north would be of greater value to us.”

 

“If you believe that to be so then you must also understand how pointless it would be to encourage Clegane,” Catelyn said in clipped tones.

 

“No more pointless than encouraging Daniel, Benfred, Cley, and the rest, or are you hoping they’ll prove a distraction?”

 

Her mother gave her a shrewd look. "Are you telling me you prefer Clegane to these others?"

 

"I enjoy his company more than theirs, yes, and he has _earned_ my regard. Will you at least meet with him?"

 

“Singling him out with an invitation would be a mark of favor and damaging to your father and to you.”

 

“Then I’ll call on you myself. It wouldn’t seem any more amiss than usual for him to escort me.”

 

“No -”

 

“Mother, he returned your husband and your daughters to you. What more must he do to deserve your thanks?”

 

Lady Catelyn seemed to know her daughter wouldn’t relent. “A _brief_ meeting.” She held up a warning finger. “And he's not to take it as approval."

 

*

 

Sansa left the great hall unsettled by her conversation with her mother but satisfied that she had at last agreed to speak with Sandor. She wondered how Sandor would take the news and made her way to the yard to see if he was there. From an exterior corridor, Sansa could see him and Jory hacking away at each other. Ser Rodrick called the moves being demonstrated for the younger men-at-arms. After directing Jory to take what would have been a disabling shot at Sandor’s shoulder, they were given leave to rest while the others practiced. Sandor pulled off his helm and paused for a moment when he saw Sansa watching him. He gulped from the skin Harry handed to him and then said a few words to his squire. Harry’s eyes found Sansa and he turned and ducked inside.

 

“Lady Sansa?” Harry said as he emerged from the stairwell.

 

Sansa smiled at him. She’d kept something of an eye on him since they’d come to Winterfell and she was pleased to see him getting along with the other squires. He looked healthy and perhaps even a little more sure of himself. “Harry, it’s nice to see you. How are you?”

 

“Very well, m’lady, and you?” He blushed furiously.

 

“I’m well, thank you.”

 

Harry smiled. “Hound sent me.”

 

Sansa nodded in prompting fashion.

 

“Hound said I’m to tell you Cayn and Mollen are leading patrols tonight. Porther, Desmond, Tomard, and Alyn will be on the walls." He seemed apologetic that the message was strange and unlikely to be of interest to Lady Sansa.

 

Sansa's brain did some quick calculating and her heart skipped a beat. There were six senior men-at-arms in charge of each watch. _He must have switched his shift!_ "Thank you, Harry. Please tell Sandor I’d like him to escort me to my family's solar soon. I’ll let him know when."

 

Harry seemed even more perplexed by that but nodded and said, "I will, m'lady."

 

*

 

That evening, Sansa felt bubbly and lightheaded as she sat at her place in the great hall. Sandor had met her eye almost immediately and she'd given a discreet nod and smiled, at which he looked down, a smile spreading over his own face. Then he'd eaten quickly and left. Sansa knew the shifts changed an hour after the evening meal. Anyone who didn't know better would think him simply getting ready to report.

 

Sansa could barely sit still, so intense was the fluttering in her stomach. After the meal, she dashed to her room and scrubbed her teeth, trying not to let questions like _Will it hurt this time?_ and _What should I do to make it better?_ send her into a panic. Sansa made herself stop and take a few deep breaths. So many concerns threatened to overwhelm her that she resorted to cutting off each thought before it could fully form. _He cares about me and I care about him and this isn’t wrong, this isn’t wrong,_ she repeated over and over. She attempted to look as normal as possible as she made her way down the stairs and through the corridors. It was a relief when she reached Sandor's room without encountering anyone who might question her.

 

Sansa opened his door even as she was knocking. Sandor was leaning toward his mirror, wearing only his breeches, half his face covered in lather. The air in the room was surprisingly fresh. At first she thought he had the windows open but then she noticed boughs of pine in the fireplace and bundles of fresh herbs tucked here and there around the room. A few candles had been lit.

 

"You're shaving? I thought you liked your beard."

 

He answered without looking away from the glass. "If I don't, your thighs will be rubbed raw."

 

A tingle went through Sansa's body and centered in her woman's place. She watched as he tipped his head up and drew the blade from the base of his throat up under his chin.

 

"I can do that for you, if you like," she said, approaching. His chest was dotted with drips of water and little dabs of soapy foam.

 

Sandor swiped his fingertips over his cheek to spread the lather around. "You'll get soap on your gown."

 

Sansa turned around. "Then take it off me." She sounded braver than she felt but they both knew why she was there.

 

Sandor gave half a laugh and put down the blade. He dried his hands and then worked her laces loose. Sansa stepped out of the gown and draped it over one of the chests under the window. She was left in only a thin slip, cinched under her bust so as to provide an appealing lift to her breasts. When she turned back around, Sandor’s eyes ranged over her. He reached out and squeezed her upper arm, his thumb brushing over her skin for a moment.

 

"Sit down so I can reach you," Sansa suggested, feeling awkward.

 

Sandor sat on the stool in front of his wash basin and handed her the blade. "Not many women I'd let take cold steel to my throat."

 

Sansa smiled. Before she lost her nerve, she hitched up her slip, straddled his lap, and sat down, registering his look of surprised gratification that was no more than a slightly raised eyebrow and the smallest of smiles.

 

"Look up."

 

Sandor did and she gently and carefully drew the blade over his neck. She turned, squeezing her legs around him, and swished the razor in the water in the basin and wiped it off on a cloth. Sandor rested his hands on her waist and looked satisfied. _Shhhhick_ went the blade over his skin. _Shhhick, swish, shhhick, swish._ Sansa was careful near his scars and gentle over his lip. Sandor lowered his eyes to her breasts and a warm look of pleasure suffused his face. "Look up," she instructed again with a laugh, loving his open appreciation of her body.

 

"I can't see you when I look up. Besides, I like the way the water runs over your teats."

 

Sansa looked down in time to see a drop of water slide over the curve of her breast before being absorbed into the neckline of her slip. She looked back up and Sandor leaned in and kissed her. He pulled away with a heated gaze and a low moan. With one hand behind her back, Sandor leaned forward and grabbed a cloth, hastily wiping the last of the water and soap from his face. He threw the cloth aside, wrapped his arms around her, and bent forward, low, nearly laying her flat, nestling his face in her cleavage and peppering her skin with soft kisses. Sansa clung to him to keep from falling, her arms and legs wrapped tight around his torso. She laughed as his kisses tickled her and, after a moment, he sat up and slid his hands under her hips, gripping them as he stood and carried her to his bed.

 

Sansa couldn't keep from grinning as Sandor laid her down. He slid a finger under the strap of her slip and edged it off her shoulder, trailing his lips after it. He worked her slip off, sweeping an appreciative gaze over her body. He rested one knee on the bed as he peeled away her smallclothes. He brought his large hands to her shoulders and gave them a squeeze before dragging them over her breasts, belly, hip bones, and thighs. "Little bird . . .," he murmured.

 

"Take your breeches off," Sansa requested in not much more than a whisper.

 

He leaned down and kissed her. "Take them off for me."

 

She smiled and summoned her courage. "I want to watch you." A blush immediately flooded her cheeks.

 

Sandor paused and looked unsure for a moment but then moved off the bed. He towered over her, prone as she was, and held her eye as he began to undo his laces. The muscles in his forearms twisted this way and that as he worked the leather cord loose. His chest became even broader as he brought his hands to his sides and gripped the waist of his breeches. Sansa's eye slid along the smooth, hard muscles of his arms to the inviting curve of his hip. His abdomen flexed as he bent just slightly to pull his clothing off, his hair falling over his shoulders. Each muscle in his stomach briefly stood in relief as he rolled up again. Sandor's eyes met hers. His gaze was cool, his actions perfunctory. Sansa was aware her mouth was open and her breathing was clipped. The sheer size of him, the power evident in the cut of his biceps and triceps, the sharply-defined, powerful quadriceps capped by the legs of his smallclothes, was overwhelming. To know that the intensity of all this strength, power, and energy was to be brought to bear upon her pressed the air from her lungs.

 

"These, too?" he asked, tugging at the waist of his smallclothes.

 

Sansa gave a weak nod, her eyes already dropping to his waist. Her view was blocked by the top of his head as he bent over to strip himself bare, but when he rose . . . The elongation of him seemed to go on and on. He shook his long hair back, the ends grazing the middle of his upper arms. His chin was slightly raised and Sansa's eye roamed over his throat before slipping down the indentation in the center of his massive chest and tapered abdomen. She closed her eyes for just a moment before looking at his manhood. Thick and full, ridged and taut, it curved up toward his lower belly. Sandor's huge hand took hold of the base of it and stroked upward, his wrist curving as his palm slid over the head. Her woman's place clenched and Sansa curled her toes and shifted her legs on the bed as she looked into Sandor's face. The animalistic desire there made her sink into the bedding.

 

"Little bird . . .," he said in a quiet rasp.

 

Sansa could only watch as he approached. He eased himself onto the bed. His hair just brushed her skin as he made his way over her. Looking into her eyes, he lowered his head for a kiss, tracing his tongue in a circle over her lips. He drew her arms above her head and lightly rubbed his fingertips over her palms as his tongue probed her mouth. Then he pushed himself up, his arms like a vault, the breadth of his chest a broad plateau in the arch he made above her, each muscle in his arms evident in support. Sansa brought her hands to the backs of his shoulders as her gaze swept down his torso and over his tight stomach. His manhood was lost in shadow but she could feel it like a shimmering wave of heat just inches above her. She forced her eyes back to Sandor's. His were heavy with want.

 

The muscles in his back glided under his skin as he lowered himself down, his neck bending so his lips could sip softly at hers. Sansa tipped her head back and arched her spine slightly just until her nipples grazed the hair on his chest. She closed her eyes. Her skin craved contact with his. Everything in her was poised for his touch and a dull ache was beginning to throb between her legs. She gripped his sides, her eyes fluttering open. “Sandor,” she breathed.

 

She might have whimpered had his response been anything other than,

  
"Are you ready?"


	26. Chapter 26

Sansa gave a small nod. The intensity in Sandor’s eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

 

He caressed the side of her face and lightly kissed her lips before moving to the side and sucking on her earlobe. Sansa wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down closer.

 

“Little bird,” he murmured, kissing her collarbone as she squeezed his sides with her knees.

 

Sansa closed her eyes and let herself sink into his pillows as Sandor slowly kissed his way down her body, his hands running over her, his rough fingertips squeezing here and here. When he reached her belly and continued moving down, Sansa realized what he intended to do and a rush of excitement went through her. She'd not forgotten the pleasure he'd given her that night in King's Landing and knowing he was going to do it again heightened the thrill of his mouth making contact with her woman's place. Sansa grinned broadly and gave a slight, "Ah," as his tongue made its way back and forth over her. Sandor replied with a muffled grunt as Sansa felt his hand graze her bottom before one of his thick fingers slid inside her. She knew she was wet already and clenched around him, the dual sensation of his finger and his tongue making her squirm. The pleasure of it all was immediate and she relaxed and enjoyed the feel of his tongue circling her apex. Very soon, Sandor fell into a rhythm and her body latched onto it and responded with little pulses and pangs. Sansa held herself taut, trying to prevent any loss of contact or interruption in the undulations of Sandor's tongue over her or his finger within her. The pulses began to fire closer and closer together. Small noises escaped her mouth. Sandor _mm_ ed and increased his speed and, all of a sudden, everything within Sansa began to pool together and rise up and draw with it every last pleasurable sensation radiating within her. It pounded against her until it broke through, shattering apart into spasms of the purest pleasure. She arched her back, clutched the sheets, and cried out again and again. The feeling seemed to go on and on, Sandor's tongue pulling pleasure from the deepest reserves of her body. Even in the dense fog of gratification, Sansa knew she'd been more vocal in her passion than she'd ever imagined she could allow. When the sensation became too acute she pulled away, her folds feeling swollen and ripe. She lay panting, ripples of pleasure flowing through her, her woman's place still contracting. Bleary-eyed, she watched as Sandor moved over her, wiping his mouth on his forearm.

 

"Good?"

 

Sansa gave a weak nod and a smile.

 

He dipped his head to kiss her mouth and Sansa's body reacted with a jolt when she felt his manhood bump against her. By instinct, she tilted her hips up. He pressed against her, making minor adjustments to find the right place. When he did, he pushed forward just slightly and, no wince or intake of breath coming from Sansa, carefully slid into her. A small gasp escaped her lips, her sensitive flesh unready for such a sensation so soon.

 

"Alright?"

 

Sansa clung to him, burying her face in his neck. He pushed forward a little more and she clenched around him, drawing a slight groan from him. "Yes," she breathed. For a moment he didn't move at all but then he began, so slowly, to rock his hips back and forth. Even that small motion called forth echoes of pleasure from the attention he'd given her with his mouth.

 

"How's that?"

 

She was elated that it didn't hurt but, "Good," was all she could manage to mutter on an exhale. Sandor seemed to relax but kept to a gentle pace, smoothly pulling back before gliding forward, grinding his flesh against hers before repeating the motion. The feeling was far less specific than that bestowed by his nimble tongue but he was coaxing the sweetest sensations from her body nonetheless. Little waves of pleasure lapped against her. Her womanhood was seeking a way to latch on to his rhythm again but the connection eluded her. Sansa clutched at Sandor’s upper arms and rocked her hips hoping to feel the swelling of pleasure within her.

 

Sandor looked at her and seemed to recognize the intensity with which she wanted to reach completion again. He pumped into her faster and harder, groaning as she panted and whined. She raised her head and fastened her lips to his nipple, sucking hard before flickering her tongue back and forth and falling back down to the bed. Sandor grunted and thrust against her with more vigor. The pull of his flesh against hers was too brief but seemed to Sansa to give her the most direct pleasure. She grabbed his hips and pushed him into her, pressing up against him.

 

"Gods," he muttered, his muscles flexing in her hands. He let her guide him and tried to mimic her speed. He held himself up, letting his hips and lower back do the work as he gazed down hungrily at Sansa, his puffs of breath barely reaching her face as her hands moved over his sweat-slicked back.

 

"Get on top of me."

 

Sansa nodded and, on his next stroke, he withdrew from her, leaving her horribly empty. In the next instant, Sandor was on his back, guiding her over him and holding her hips as she aligned herself to receive him. With the heels of her hands pressing down onto his shoulders, she took him in and began a rhythm of her own. Sandor's eyes ranged over her and he brushed the backs of his fingers over her breast as he drew in ragged breaths.

 

This felt different but still not immediate enough to bring another torrent of pleasure down upon her. Sansa moved faster as Sandor murmured that she was beautiful, that she was perfect, that she felt fucking unbelievable. He held her hips and, suddenly, his thumb was against her apex. She gasped and ground into it, her scattered pleasure suddenly finding traction and rushing toward a climax. Sandor was gritting his teeth and blowing out air like a spent horse. Her head hung down as she desperately dragged herself against him. He groaned and bucked under her. She threw her head back and twitched her hips forward a few last times, her nails digging into his shoulders as she gave herself over to the pleasure surging through her.

 

Once the desperation of the moment had receded, Sansa eased herself off of him and fell into his waiting arms. Sandor pulled her against him and held her tight as their breathing slowed to a normal pace. Sansa had never felt so languid. Her woman’s place felt plump and pleasantly bruised. Sandor nipped at the place where her shoulder met her neck and she absentmindedly drew her fingers over his arm and chest and felt a vague sense of awe at the pleasure his magnificent body had given her.

 

Long moments went by before Sansa came to the conclusion that everything around them seemed to be wet. Their bodies, the bed, the air. Everything except her mouth.

 

As though he’d heard her thought, Sandor murmured, “Wine?”

 

Grateful, she said, “Yes, please,” and snuggled into the bedding as Sandor extricated himself from it. As he crossed the room, Sansa enjoyed the shadows that appeared and disappeared as his muscular buttocks flexed. He returned with a glass for her and a flagon for himself, which he put on the nightstand as he took his place beneath the covers. Sansa rolled toward him and nearly shrieked when her leg landed in a large, cold wet spot. Fortunately, the wine warmed her back up, though not as much as the proximity of Sandor’s body did.

 

When they had their fill, Sandor pulled her close again. Sansa breathed in the scent of him and lightly kissed his throat, hearing his smile in his breathy chuckle. She rested her forehead against his chest and he leaned over her, one arm under her head, his other hand tangled in her hair. Warm, safe, peaceful, Sansa felt more content than she’d ever dreamed possible. Sandor was gently raking his fingers through her hair, squeezing the back of her neck, and moving his broad palm down her back. At first his rubbing was making her even more drowsy than she already was but then she realized there was a restlessness in it and a tension within Sandor that seemed unusual.

 

“Are you alright?” she murmured, pushing his hair back and letting her nails play over his scalp.

 

He closed his eyes at the feeling. He didn’t answer but instead kissed her mouth with a sweet urgency and for a moment Sansa wondered if he wanted to be satisfied again. He inched down the bed and, though he kissed the side of her neck, the top of her breast, and her belly, Sansa sensed his distraction. He rested his forehead on her stomach, his hands gripping her sides. Pressing another kiss to her skin, he said something too muffled for Sansa to make out.

 

"Pardon?"

 

He looked up, his face a rictus of torment. "Sansa . . . I . . ." He pressed his lips together in frustration before gathering himself. "Stay with me. Be mine."

 

Every flowery speech her younger self had ever longed to hear disintegrated in importance in the wake of those five words.

 

"Are you asking me to marry you?" The blood was pounding in her ears.

 

"Marry me. Don't. It doesn't matter so long as you're mine. Say it. Say you'll be mine and tell me you'll have me as yours."

 

For a long moment, Sansa was too stunned to reply. The pain in his eyes recalled her to her senses and she choked out, "Yes. Yes. I'll have you as mine. I have _been_ yours for . . ." she broke out in a smile, "for so long."

 

Happiness and relief washed over his face. He moved up the bed to kiss her and take her into his arms. He murmured something too softly for Sansa to truly hear but she thought it might be, “My little bird.” She snuggled into him, and, as he held her tight, a wetness touched her skin where his cheek lay against her temple.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! It was much longer than I intended it to be. It's full steam ahead from now on!

The songs were lies. Their feeble descriptions of love had nothing on the absolute joy Sansa felt radiating through every pore of her skin. Sandor was the best, most faithful, most loving, most handsome, most honest, kindest, strongest, smartest, _perfect_ man the gods had ever wrought - and he was _hers_! And she was his and never before had any two lovers felt like this. The _glory_ of it overwhelmed her and Sansa knew herself to be in love.

 

She could barely contain her feelings for him whenever she passed him in the halls or on the grounds and she was certain there was a softer look in his eyes whenever he saw her, too. Discretion was difficult. She wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, in his arms, or by his side.

 

They had been walking the inner wall after the evening meal and had stopped between guard posts for privacy when they noticed Arya and Gendry sparring in the bailey below. Sansa teased, “We’ll have to alter the terms of our wager.”

 

Sandor raised an eyebrow at her. “The other night felt like me winning that wager . . .”

 

"It wasn’t. Arya’s indifference toward Gendry couldn’t be more clear.”

 

Sandor looked amused. “She’s sparring with him, isn’t she?"

 

They peered over the wall. Far, far below, Arya and Gendry circled each other, the clash of their swords ringing out.

 

Sansa gave him a dubious look. “The moon will turn in just a few days and she hasn’t shown him any preference at all. In fact, Arya doesn’t treat Gendry any differently than she does our brothers. She’s equally pig-headed with them both.”

 

“She’s pig-headed because she wants his attention. She’s different than most girls, I’ll give her that, but she wants the same as any of them. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

 

“And what about him? Do you think he’s interested in her?”

 

“I think he’s afraid of her, which proves he’s got some wits about him.”

 

“ _Gendry_ afraid of _Arya_? You don’t really believe that.”

 

“She’s the highborn daughter of the lord who spared him a lifetime on the Wall and she won’t leave him alone. Of course he’s afraid of her. She’ll ruin his life if he lets her.”

 

“Arya wouldn’t do that.”

 

“Right. She never gets angry,” Sandor said, cutting his eyes down to Sansa’s.

 

Sansa laughed and took his arm and they resumed their amble along the wall. “I’ll feel sorry for her, indeed, if she _does_ like him and he doesn’t return her feelings.”

 

“He’s the one I’d pity.”

 

“I’m going to ask her about it.”

 

“And spend the night with me when you learn I’m right?” he asked in an undertone.

 

“I’ve already spent the night with you.”

 

“I want you for a whole night. I want to wake up with you.”

 

Sansa gave a wobbly smile. “I want that, too.”

 

Sandor squeezed the hand she had resting on his arm.

 

“And if I’m right?” Sansa asked.

 

“I’ll ask your father for a place here. That was the agreement,” he answered evenly.

 

Sansa registered the resignation in his tone but let it go.

 

*

 

“I saw you sparring with Gendry earlier,” Sansa said to her sister that evening.

 

Arya gave her a suspicious look. “So?”

 

“So you seem to spend a lot of time with him.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“It’s nice of you. He doesn’t seem comfortable with many people.”

 

Arya chewed at her lip but didn’t reply.

  
"Do you _like_ him?" Sansa thought back to Arya confronting her about Sandor on the boat and felt rather giddy to be the one doing the questioning this time.

 

Arya gave her an irritated look.

 

"He's certainly handsome."

 

"You've been looking at Clegane too long."

 

Sansa cocked her head to the side in disapproving fashion.

 

"I'm sorry! I don't want to talk about Gendry.” Arya looked uncomfortable and shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. "He has a lot of stupid ideas," she said.

 

“What are his stupid ideas?”

 

“He thinks he can set up his own shop somewhere after the war is over.”

 

“That seems reasonable.”

 

“No, it doesn’t! If he wants to bang on metal, he can do it right here at Winterfell. Mikken is busy all the time. Father _asked_ Gendry to stay. Why would he want to have his own shop when he could work here where there's plenty to do? It’s _stupid_.”

 

“You _like_ him!”

 

“Shut _up_ , Sansa! Just because you and Clegane are all -” Arya scrunched up her face and made kissing noises as she tipped her head side to side and ran her hands up and down her upper arms. “- doesn’t mean -”

 

Sansa burst out laughing.

 

Arya glowered at her.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Sansa asked without anger. Just the thought of she and Sandor doing that set her to giggling again.

 

“It is to me.”

 

“You’ve kept my secret. I’ll keep yours, too.”

 

“I don’t have any secrets.”

 

Sansa kept her expression neutral despite wanting to smile at how young and pouty her sister sounded.

 

“I don’t think it’s wrong of you to like him.”

 

“What makes you think I like him? I spar with a lot of the boys.”

 

“Actually, it was Sandor who suggested you have feelings for Gendry. I didn’t think you did.”

 

“Well you can tell _Sandor_ that he can go -”

 

“You can tell him that. I’ll tell him he was wrong and that you don’t care for Gendry at all.”

 

Arya nodded. Then she added, “But he should tell you if Gendry says anything about me.”

 

Sansa assured her she would and, after some idle chit-chat, left her sister’s room. She intended to find Sandor right away but hesitated. She wanted a little time to think about things and, at any rate, Sandor was on duty though she wasn't sure where. That Arya liked Gendry now seemed obvious. In a way, it made her feel sad. If her parents objected to her own interest in Sandor, they’d surely oppose her sister’s attachment to a mere blacksmith. Her father seemed to like him . . . but that didn’t change things. _It doesn’t matter now anyway. Arya’s never been interested in getting married._ Marriage. Sansa sighed. Sandor had asked her to be his but he hadn’t sought her hand. _“Marry me. Don’t. It doesn’t matter.” Maybe it doesn’t matter because Mother and Father wouldn’t agree to a betrothal_? Sansa didn’t feel a pressing need to get married very soon but she did know that she’d have no other man but Sandor. Instead of finding him, it felt more productive to go in search of her mother.

 

*

 

Lady Stark had already retired for the night but Sansa was admitted into her chambers and found her propped up in bed with a book.

 

“Sandor’s off-duty tomorrow morning. Would that be a convenient time for us to meet?”

 

Catelyn closed her book, her gaze boring into her eldest daughter. “Sansa -”

 

“You agreed.”

 

“To a _brief_ meeting, though there hardly seems to be a point to it.”

 

Sansa drew back, her mother’s words stinging her. “There’s a point to my feelings.”

 

Catelyn’s expression softened. “Fine, since it's important to you, though I don't want you to be disappointed if nothing changes."

 

"I hope you'll keep an open mind."

 

"I'll listen to what he has to say."

 

A flutter of unease went through Sansa's stomach. She doubted Sandor would be making any grand speeches. "All I'm asking is for you to get to know him better. You still see him as a Lannister cat's-paw and he's not."

 

Her mother looked unmoved. "Tomorrow morning, then."

 

Sansa left and sought out Harry, asking him to relay the appointed time to Sandor as soon as possible.

 

*

 

Late that night, a rough hand slid over Sansa's mouth, awakening her. She tried to struggle but was held firm.

 

"Shhh, little bird. It's me."

 

Sansa caught her breath. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

 

"I just got off duty. Harry said you want me to escort you to your family's solar tomorrow. What the buggering hell is going on?"

 

Sansa's eyes grew wide. She'd never told him! "I want my mother to get to know you better. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. She agreed to meet with you, though!"

 

"What did you tell her, little bird?"

 

He sounded angry and Sansa wished she could see him better. He was sitting on the side of her bed but was no longer touching her.

 

"I told her I want her to know you better."

 

Sandor exhaled through his nose. "And why would she want to do that?"

 

"Because I also told her I prefer your company to that of our bannermen's sons."

 

After a long moment, he said in a very measured tone, "Your mother is never going to want me for you. I have no lands, no title -"

 

"I'm not expecting you to ask for my hand. Just talk to her."

 

Sandor leaned forward so they were chest to chest, his hand flattening the pillow next to her head. In her opposite ear, he whispered, "If she had any idea what we've done, she'd open my throat herself. Leave it alone, little bird. No good will come of drawing her notice to us.”

 

"I'm not going to _leave it alone_ ," Sansa whispered back. "You asked me to be yours. You wanted to be mine. I'll have you accepted by my family."

 

"You'll have me driven out by them, you mean," he answered, shifting so his forehead rested against hers.

 

The proximity didn't bother Sansa in the least. She returned his gaze. "No one's going to drive you out."

 

"Where's Jon Snow?"

 

Sansa stiffened. Sandor sat up and looked out into the darkness of her room. "Little bird, one day soon, your father is going to give the order and we're going to be gone. Just let me have you until then."

 

Sansa's heart clenched and she sat up as well and grabbed at his hand.

 

“Until then? I thought you wanted us to belong to each other for . . . much longer," she finished lamely.

 

"I do."

 

"So you'll come back and then what? Will we just pretend to be acquaintances forever?"

 

"It's a war. I might earn some favor."

 

"No! I won't have you doing something stupid when you could earn favor just by talking to my mother," Sansa whispered furiously.

 

He rolled his head toward her. She didn't need to see his face to know the look that was on it.

 

"Are you saying you won't talk to her?"

 

"I'll talk to her. Just don't expect anything to change."

 

It didn't escape Sansa that her mother had said practically the same thing. "Things will be easier if she likes you."

 

Sandor snorted. He leaned in and brushed a chaste kiss across her lips before leaving.

 

*

 

The next morning, Sansa dressed carefully in a gown her mother had complimented recently. She was a bit miffed when Sandor arrived wearing his red dog's-head tunic but she let it go without comment. He offered his arm silently and they began the short walk to her family's solar. They entered to find Sansa's mother standing and waiting for them.

 

"Good morning, Mother."

 

"Good morning, Sansa." After a beat she added, "Clegane," as though the name was bitter on her tongue.

 

Sandor tipped his head. "Lady Stark."

 

Catelyn sat. Sansa took a seat and invited Sandor to do the same but he remained standing until Catelyn frowned and gave a brief nod.

 

For an uncomfortable moment, the three of them sat, Sandor and Catelyn looking at Sansa, she looking back and forth between the two of them.

 

"I'm glad we could all meet this morning," Sansa said.

 

No one replied.

 

After a long pause and with a huff, Catelyn said, "Lady Sansa speaks highly of you, Clegane." _Too highly_ was clearly implied.

 

"Lady Sansa is generous."

 

"She is," her mother said with a look at Sansa.

 

"It was Sandor who was very kind, mother. We would have been trapped in King's Landing if he hadn't figure out Joffrey's plan."

 

"Yes, you've mentioned that. And how, exactly, did you come to determine that my family was in danger, Clegane?"

 

"Joffrey as good as said he was planning on taking Lord Stark's head."

 

"I see. And what made you come north?"

 

Sandor took a moment before replying. "Even a dog gets tired of being kicked."

  
"A dog shouldn't bite the hand that feeds it."

  
"I did everything I was ordered to do, Lady Stark."

 

Sansa heard the edge on Sandor's words and wished he'd give her mother an accounting of what life was like as one of the Lannisters’ preferred men-at-arms.

 

"Everything except stay."

 

"Aye, except that."

 

“You left the family you were sworn to serve, the family you served since you were a boy, I understand.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sansa gave him a prompting look and he added, “I went to King’s Landing when I was eleven. I was twelve during Robert’s Rebellion.”

 

“That’s very young.”

 

Sandor shrugged.

 

“You weren’t needed at home?”

 

“No.”

 

“He had to leave, mother,” Sansa put in. Sandor looked at her from under his brow.

 

Catelyn’s eyebrows drew together. “I understand your father was killed in a hunting accident. Surely your brother could have used your help managing your family’s keep. Instead, you went to King’s Landing.”

 

Sandor’s jaw was tight and his nostrils flared. “Have you ever met my brother, Lady Stark?”

 

“No, I haven’t.”

 

“As Lady Sansa says, no one can withstand him.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Mother, Ser Gregor is frightening. He almost killed Ser Loras Tyrell during the tourney King Robert held in Father’s honor because Ser Loras tried to win by trickery. Sandor saved him. Ser Gregor was so enraged he took his sword and almost cut his horse’s head off. It was terrifying! That's the sort of man he is, Mother,” she trailed off. She didn't like to speak ill of Sandor's family but her mother needed to understand.

 

It was apparent that Catelyn had not heard this before. She looked at Sandor. “You’re his brother, not his horse.”

 

“That didn’t stop Ser Gregor from attacking Sandor after he’d saved Ser Loras,” Sansa couldn’t help but add.

 

“Uncouth behavior,” Catelyn murmured.

 

“Am I to be condemned for my brother’s actions?”

 

Catelyn looked at him through narrowed eyes. “What he did at the tourney doesn’t change the fact that you abandoned him after your father’s death.”

 

“Abandoned him? Hardly.” His voice was rimmed with anger.

 

“You had a duty to your family.”

 

“A duty to let myself be killed?" Sandor spat, standing up. "You seem to put a high price on sacrifice, Lady Stark, without actually having to make any yourself. When I first met your daughter, her head was full of songs. Now I know where she got it from. Your entire life has been a song and you look down on anyone whose wasn't.” He stalked away and glared out a window.

 

“I beg your pardon!” Catelyn rose as well.

 

Sandor rounded on her. “You sit in judgement when you’ve hardly had to endure a hardship yourself.”

 

“My hardships are -”

 

“Few and far between. As Hoster Tully’s get you grew up in Riverrun surrounded by maids who brought you everything you wanted. That must have been a hard life. You had a brother and sister, the same as I did, and neither one is a murderous bastard, though I have my doubts about your sister."

 

“My sister?! How dare you!” Catelyn leaned forward as though she would lunge at him.

 

“Your wretched, miserable sister, aye. She practically licked the floor Littlefinger walked on.”

 

“ _Lies_.”

 

“Truth. You grew up pretty and wealthy and then your pampered hand was offered to Brandon Stark. What a cruel blow that must have been. Handsome, strong, gallant. Too bad he was only heir to Winterfell and the entire bloody north. How you must have cried when your father made that match.”

 

“As you well know, my hand was my father’s to give as he saw fit. I abided by his decision as a dutiful daughter should and I expect my own daughters to do the same.”

 

“It’s easy to be obedient when your father makes you a good match but what about your sister? He foisted her off on Jon Arryn, whose toothless mouth couldn’t contain his foul breath, who was neither young nor handsome, who only managed to sire on her a skinny, sickly whelp. I saw your sister more than you did, Lady Stark. I saw how she wasted away in the name of duty, of family. She was easy prey for a man like Lord Baelish. Gods, it was pathetic how she trailed after him.” He shook his head. “Don’t tell me she was happy in her marriage.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to say something but her mother immediately replied, “Jon Arryn was a good man.”

 

“And still not one Lady Lysa wanted in her bed. Duty is a fine notion when you have all the luck.”

 

“I would hardly call having one’s betrothed killed ‘luck.’”

 

“The man died in defense of his family. That must have pleased you. Maybe even more so than having Ned Stark available to keep his brother’s promise. While your sister was losing babe after babe, you had five healthy children. Six, if you count Jon Snow,” he added in a wicked tone.

 

“Sandor . . .” Sansa was stiff with nerves. This wasn’t going well at all.

 

“ _Four_ healthy children, or have you forgotten what’s happened to Bran?” her mother said severely. “He was fine until _you_ came here with the Lannisters.”

 

“I had nothing to do with the boy’s fall.”

 

“Who did?”

 

“If I knew and I told you, I’d be betraying the family I served and you’d scorn me for it, yet my betrayal of them is what you ask.”

 

Sansa glanced at her mother. She looked incensed. Her teeth were gnashed together and her chest rose and fell with short, angry breaths.

 

“Bran is an innocent. If you know something, _anything_ -”

 

“You can’t have it both ways.”

 

“But you can? You can desert your family for the Lannisters and the Lannisters for us? You're a man with options, is that it? Who would take you in? Who are your allies, Clegane?"

 

"My arms and my sharp steel."

 

Catelyn made a derisive noise. “If that were so, then your life was never in danger, as you claimed.”

 

“No?"

 

Sansa recognized the dangerous look on his face and wanted to prevent him from saying anything rash but her mother went on.

  
"No. If you willingly fought in Robert's Rebellion at twelve, surely your own brother could have posed no threat."

  
"My brother is always a threat," Sandor rumbled.

 

"Your own family? I don't believe it."

 

"Believe it, Lady Stark."

 

"A family is more than one person."

 

"That's so."

 

"Where is your mother?"

 

"Dead."

 

"You mentioned a sister . . ."

 

"Dead."

 

"I understand your father suffered an accident . . ."

 

"Just as dead."

 

"I'm sorry for your misfortunes but you still left your brother when he must have needed you most-"

 

Sansa was transfixed. She could hardly breathe. She stared at Sandor and he glanced at her.

 

In a tight, low voice, Sandor said, "My brother needed _nothing_ from me."

 

"But your family -"

 

"This is my _family_ , Lady Stark: my mother died of illness not long after my sister was born. She was fortunate in that. Gregor killed our sister when she was five. He told my father it was an accident, that she'd fallen, but it was no accident. When I was seven, he gave me these," he gestured toward his scars. "My father knew about it but did nothing. _Nothing_. He was afraid of Gregor by then, and with good reason. When I was eleven, Gregor went hunting with my father. Another accident. It didn't take a maester to see I'd be next. That's my _family_ , Lady Stark, so you go on thinking I deserted my brother if you like but stop pretending we're all like the Tullys and the Starks. We're not. You just can't see beyond your own good fortune."

  
Sansa's mother stood with her mouth open. Sansa was jolted by the air suddenly rushing into her lungs. She knew how closely Sandor guarded his past.

 

With an obvious effort at being calm, Catelyn sat down and smoothed her skirt. Her voice was fairly even when she said, "You don't seem to have much respect for me or my family."

 

Sandor shifted his stance. "You, Lord Stark . . . you treat your people fairly. I respect that."

 

"As much as I value our people, they are not my family."

 

Sandor took a breath. "Lady Sansa showed me kindness when I didn't deserve it. She's a proper little lady. She holds you as her model of what a lady should be. And Lord Stark has treated me well, and your sons."

 

"I understand Arya might have reason to object to your presence here."

 

"I didn't kill her little friend because I wanted to."

 

"Arya likes him," Sansa cut in.

 

"You still left the Lannisters when you were sworn to them," Catelyn said gingerly.

 

"Joffrey will make Aerys look like Ser Galladon. You know what Cersei's like. I don't doubt one or other of them is behind your boy's fall."

 

"I had the impression you liked killing."

 

"For a long time, I did."

 

"And now?"

 

Sandor gave a lazy shrug. "I killed for them for fifteen years. Now I want something else."

 

"Well, I can see why you'd want to leave the Lannisters' service but you haven't asked for a place here."

 

"No."

 

"Why not? That's why you came here, isn't it? Or did you come to be close to Sansa?"

 

"I like being my own man."

 

Catelyn waited, clearly expecting a response to the rest of her questions, but Sandor remained silent.

 

"He told Father he'd fight for the north," Sansa said.

 

"Will you?"

  
"Yes."

  
"And what of Sansa?"

 

"No one can protect her better than I can."

 

"She's well protected here."

 

Sandor laughed. "You let _me_ walk right through the door."

 

Catelyn looked alarmed.

 

Sandor grew more serious. "Lady Stark, your daughter is safe with me. There is no finer lady in the Seven Kingdoms and I’ll bloody anyone who would do her harm."

 

"Her father and I agree she’s a fine lady and we will expect her to marry very well because of it."

 

"I expect the same."

 

Sansa frowned but, at long last, Catelyn looked satisfied. “You just said you'd fight for the north. You can’t protect her then."

 

"No, but _you_ can."

 

To Sansa's surprise her mother chuckled. “I may not have a sword but, you are right, Clegane, I will protect my daughter until my last breath.”

 

“And gods help the bastard who crosses you.”

 

Sansa was relieved when her mother smiled. “Indeed.”

 

For a moment no one spoke. For the first time since they’d come back to Winterfell, it felt as though the tension in the air had dissipated. Sansa realized she’d barely spoken and now she wasn’t sure what to say.

 

Sandor looked over at her. “It’s time I got down to the yard, Lady Sansa, and I think you’re going riding with the Cerwyn boy.”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

Catelyn stood.

 

“Good day, Lady Stark.”

 

“Good day, Clegane.”

 

“Mother, will I see you this evening?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sansa nodded, took Sandor’s arm, and left the solar.

 

They made their way through the castle in silence. When they’d almost reached the yard, Sansa said, “Thank you. I know that wasn’t something you wanted to do.”

 

“It’s better that it happened.”

 

Sansa took a quick look up and down the empty hall and then grabbed him, hauling herself up until she could reach his lips. With one hand at her waist and the other behind her neck, he bent her backwards and let his tongue make a quick circle around the soft interior of her mouth. Then they broke apart and resumed walking down the hall as though nothing had happened.

 

Sandor chuckled, “Let go find your father and talk to him now. Then maybe each of your siblings.”

 

Sansa squeezed his arm and smiled. “Speaking of talking to people, I asked Arya about Gendry earlier.”

 

“And?”

 

“She _does_ like him! I never would have thought!”

 

Sandor smiled down at her with a self-satisfied look.

 

“She wouldn’t admit it, though.”

“Then how do you know?”

 

“Just by how she didn’t want to talk about him. I was the same way when I was twelve.”

 

“She’s fifteen.”

 

“She’s Arya.”

 

Sandor snorted.

 

“She wants you to tell me if Gendry says anything about her.”

 

Sandor made a noise of disgust. “I want _you_ to tell _me_ when I get to have you for the night,” he said quietly.

 

“I don’t know.” Sansa blushed. She loved the thrill his words sent through her, that this level of intimacy was just part of their relationship now. “When would you like to have me?” she said in a low voice.

 

“All day and all night, little bird, but soon because your father’s plans are nearly set.”

 

Sansa thought. She was spending time with Jeyne and Beth Cassel tonight and had planned on seeing if Joanne was available to go over a difficult piece of music the next night but she hadn’t talked to her about it yet. “Tomorrow? Are you on duty?”

 

“I am until the evening. We’ll play cyvasse and then you can come to my room later. What will you do about your maid in the morning?”

 

“I’ll send her a message that I have a headache and want to sleep in. I’ll ask her to come later.”

 

Sandor nodded.

 

They’d reached the exit leading to the yard. Sandor gave her a slight bow. “Good day, Lady Sansa.” He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

 

“Good day, my lord,” Sansa answered with a grin.

 

*

 

That evening, Catelyn came to Sansa’s room and brushed out her hair. It felt lovely and lulling and Sansa wondered how she’d ever endured being away from her mother in King’s Landing.

 

“Thank you for talking with Sandor today.”

 

Catelyn looked at her in the mirror. “He’s quite dependent on you.”

 

Sansa gave her mother a suppressive look. “For what?”

 

“His place here but, even more so, his happiness. He talks as though his whole life was a misery until he met you.”

 

Sansa didn’t want to think of him that way and to agree would be immodest in the extreme. “I was very surprised he told you about his family.”

 

Catelyn exhaled. “It’s a shocking history.”

 

“Please don’t tell anyone. He’s very sensitive about it, especially about his sister and his scars.”

 

“I’m not a gossip, Sansa, and I certainly wouldn’t make light of someone’s pain.”

 

Sansa was satisfied. “Has your opinion of him changed at all?”

 

“He’s crude and rough but he seems to know his place and I have no objection to him protecting you.”

 

“Thank you, Mother.”

 

“I do expect you to continue to spend time with other young men, though.”

 

Sansa suppressed a groan but said evenly, “I will.”

 

Catelyn gave a nod and gently pulled the brush over Sansa’s scalp as she changed the subject.

 

*

 

Later, Sansa sunk against her pillows and was overcome by a sense of peace. Her mother and Sandor had reached an understanding, of sorts, and the morning after next, she would wake up with Sandor. The future seemed so full of possibilities that she refused to think about the impending war.

 


	28. Chapter 28

The night was drawing to a close. Sansa nudged her pieces around the cyvasse board with the same inattention as Sandor. "Shall we make this game our last?" she suggested.

  
Before Sandor could answer, a few men-at-arms approached.

  
"Lady Sansa," they said, nodding, "we apologize for interrupting your evening -"  


"You're not, my lord. We just finished our last game."

 

"In that case, Clegane, maybe you'd be interested in another game. Wagers will be low to start," the man-at-arms said with a smirk.

 

Sandor chuckled.

 

"Lady Sansa, you'd be most welcome, too, if you'd like," added another of the men.

 

"Thank you but it's getting late and I should retire soon."

 

Sandor rumbled that he'd be willing to join them and asked where they'd be playing, adding, “If you're certain you don't want to play another round, Lady Sansa." Sandor gave her a direct look and she tipped her head in response. She knew Sandor saw the men's invitation in the same way she did - as an alibi. She'd use the time to get herself ready and then slip down to his room.

 

"I'm certain. I bid you all a good night."

 

The men all wished her the same and they left the great hall in opposite directions.

 

*

 

As soon as her maid left, Sansa realized she’d never mentioned the headache she was planning on having to delay her maid’s return the next morning. With a frown, she stuffed a simple gown, a change of smallclothes, a brush, and toothbrush into a bag. She pulled a cloak out of her wardrobe and made sure it was long enough to cover the gauzy nightgown she was wearing and then she looked around and wondered, _How long will Sandor be with the other men?_ It was late, but only for her. She knew the castle wouldn't fall quiet for a few more hours yet. She decided she'd rather wait in Sandor's room than in her own. If she ran into trouble getting to his room now, she'd still have time to try again later.

 

As she reached for the doorknob, she had an idea and hurried back. Sansa dashed off a note to her maid and left it propped up on her dressing table. _I arose earlier than expected and didn't wish to wake you. I'll dress for the evening meal at the usual time. Thank you! Sansa._ It was a flimsy pretense. Sansa wasn't sure but she suspected her maid woke up far earlier than Sansa ever had. Still, the note might buy her some precious time with Sandor tomorrow morning and so the fabrication, inconsiderate though it was, would have to do.

  
That done, Sansa crept out of her room. She knew she looked suspicious carrying a bag and wearing a cloak so she skulked through the hallways, keeping to the shadows, her heart threatening to pound through her chest each time she encountered anyone. _Is every squire in the North on an errand tonight?_ It took her three times as long as it should have but she eventually made it safely to Sandor’s room and ducked inside.

  
His room was pitch black. Sansa shuffled to the bed and put her bag on it before she began groping her way around the room. She discovered the candles by knocking them over and found the tinder-strike by patting the table and the floor. At last she was able to bring a small glow to the room. Sansa shucked her cloak and decided to light a fire. The wood was good and dry and caught almost instantly. _That's better_ , she thought, nodding to herself and feeling pleased.

  
The light from the fire reached across the room but left the bed dimly light. Sansa blew out the candles, save one she placed on the nightstand next to the bed. She thought maybe an hour had passed since she and Sandor had parted in the great hall. It was unreasonable for her to expect him back so soon but she had no idea what to do with herself and regretted not bringing a book. She sat gingerly on the side of his bed. She wondered if she shouldn't have come already dressed for bed but it was too late to change and, anyway, spending the night together was the plan.  


The thought sent a rush through Sansa's stomach. She moved her bag to the floor and lay down on the bed. She hugged one of Sandor's pillows to her chest and breathed in his clean, masculine scent. It caused an agreeable ache between her legs. She knew she was happy, and the gods knew she was thrilled to be spending the night with Sandor, but a vague dissatisfaction niggled at her. She couldn't entirely ignore her mother's concerns. Sansa knew she loved Sandor and she was nearly certain he felt the same way about her, though he hadn't said so, but it was difficult to dismiss the warnings she’d heard her entire life. She was to save her maidenhead for her husband. It was too late for that but Sansa wanted some reassurance that she wasn't risking everything on a misapprehension.  
  
Unable to make such a determination on her own, she pushed the disagreeable thoughts aside and, instead, looked around the room. She decided it felt like Sandor. Even though he had few belongings, he'd somehow pervaded the space and made it feel like his, and Sansa liked being in a place that was so _him_. She wondered what Clegane Keep was like and what kind of home Sandor would make for himself if he had the opportunity. She imagined the two of them living together and tried to picture life in a cozy, secluded little cabin somewhere deep in the woods. Imagining such a thing was difficult, though, since she'd always lived in a keep in the company of hundreds of other people. Just as she was deciding that private chambers might suit them better, she heard his heavy footsteps approach.

 

Sansa rolled toward the door, still hugging his pillow. His face opened in surprise but then his eyes ranged over her and a satisfied smile settled on his lips. "Girl, if I'd known you'd be waiting for me looking like that, I would have lost faster," he said as he locked the door. He set a bag on the table and began stripping off weapons and light armor.

 

Sansa wasn't quite sure what she looked like but she sat up and took in the sight of him. She ignored it when her nightgown slipped off her shoulder. Sandor noticed and gave his head a slight shake as he peeled off his tunic and breeches, quickly washed up, and sank down on to the bed next to her. He gathered her in his arms and kissed her deeply. Sansa relished the feel of his body against hers and tried to relax though thoughts of the future continued to swirl through her mind.

 

"Are you cold?" he asked quietly.

 

"No, why?"

 

"You lit a fire."

 

"Just to see by."

 

"Good. Then you don't need this," he said as he tugged at her nightgown.

 

Sansa laughed but her troublesome thoughts wouldn't leave her alone. She tried to push them aside again as Sandor buried his face in the crook of her neck. Sansa squirmed and ran her fingers through his hair. She rubbed at his shoulders and swept a kiss across his temple without being much aware of what he was doing to her.

 

"What is it, little bird?" Sandor asked, his lips brushing her skin.

 

"What -"

 

"You're thinking of something else. What's wrong?"

 

Sansa took a breath. Horrid outcomes careened through her mind but she plunged ahead. "Do you love me?"

 

He pulled back so he could look into her face. He seemed a little surprised but simply answered, "Yes."

 

Relief flooded through her and she smiled at him. "I love you, too."

 

Though the room was dim, Sandor's face looked lit from within. "Is that so?" he murmured, leaning in to nip at her earlobe.

 

"Yes," Sansa whispered back.

 

"Show me."

 

Sansa's cheeks grew warm. "Show -"

 

"Yes," Sandor interrupted as he rolled off of her and on to his back. With a wicked grin, he threw his arms wide, making himself available to her. "Show me."

 

There was a gleam in his eye as he watched her closely. Sansa felt acutely uncomfortable. What did he want? How could she show him? Without realizing it, she laid her hand on her chest. The gesture was self-conscious but it earned an _mmm_ from Sandor.

  
"Go on," he coaxed in his rough voice.

 

Sansa looked down. When she realized what he thought she was doing, she crawled over and blew out the candle on the nightstand. She moved back down the bed grateful for the deeper shadows. Sandor reached out and took a gentle hold of her knee and traced his thumb over it in a circle. He looked into her eyes but didn't press her.

 

It made Sansa feel a little more confident so she reached behind her head and slowly unbraided her hair, arching her back just slightly. She shook her hair loose while holding Sandor's gaze from the corner of her eye. She had his full attention. She gave him a shy smile which he returned with a broad grin. He made to sit up but Sansa pushed him back with just her fingertips. His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise but he lay down.

  
Sansa leaned over to curl her fingers under the waist of his smallclothes. He lifted his hips and she pulled his remaining clothing off. After she dropped his smallclothes on the floor, she sat back on her heels and considered the man before her. That he was aroused was obvious. That he wanted her, she knew. What was unfamiliar was being indisputably in charge of what happened next

 

"Sit up, please."

  
One corner of Sandor's mouth hitched up in a crooked grin. "Yes, my lady," he rumbled.

 

Sansa smiled. "Move back."

  
Sandor retreated until his back was against the headboard. His eyes had an eager, hungry look. "What would you have me do now?"

 

She took his hands and placed them on her breasts. He immediately began squeezing them and running his thumbs over her nipples. "Mmm," she said, closing her eyes in enjoyment.

  
She didn't want to be greedy but his hands felt so good . . . "Would you run your fingers through my hair?" she asked, feeling a little awkward to be making requests but Sandor simply did as she asked. Sansa sighed happily as Sandor worked his fingers through her hair, gripping a handful of it and pulling just enough to put the most delicious drag on her scalp. Sansa tipped her head back. "The back of my neck . . . ?" she suggested, feeling a little guilty for indulging herself so.  


"Anything you want," Sandor rumbled as he palmed her nape and slowly squeezed.

  
She wanted much, much more but simple courtesy dictated that she return some of the attention he was lavishing on her. “Let's play a game," Sansa said, making it up on the spot, her mind grappling for rules while simultaneously cataloging all of the ways in which she wanted to feel him.

  
One eyebrow twitched upwards but he _hmm_ ed with an air of deep anticipation and relaxed against the carved wood of the headboard, reaching back to grip the top of it, his triceps in sharp relief.

 

For a moment, Sansa just gaped at his muscular form. Then she began to speak without much idea of what she was saying, only aware that she wanted to make this night last as long as possible. "I'm going to say 'eyes,' 'hands,' or 'mouth.' 'Eyes' means you get to watch me do something. 'Hands' means I'll touch you somewhere. 'Mouth' means I'll kiss you somewhere -"

  
"Do I get to choose where?"

  
"No."

  
"Mouth."

  
"I'm not done explaining the rules!"

  
" _Mouth."_ He was grinning again.

  
Sansa smiled in spite of herself. She leaned in and kissed him gently and chastely but otherwise didn't touch him. When he parted his lips, she pulled away.

 

"Hands," he said immediately.

 

"It's my turn!"

 

He frowned but waited.

 

Sansa thought for a moment. "Hands."

  
Sandor gave her a challenging look of appraisal. He let go of the headboard, reached out, and cupped her hips, sliding his hands over her curves until his fingers were between her legs. The motion was so smooth and his fingertips touched her so lightly that it sent a jolt through Sansa's body. He pulled her toward him just slightly before rasping, "Mouth."

  
Sansa moved down and trailed kisses from the base of his neck to his navel.

  
"Lower."

 

“No,” Sansa said but she couldn't help smiling.

 

“Make it good, girl.”

 

“Mouth, please.”

 

“Hmm,” Sandor said, eyeing her. “Lie on your stomach.”

 

Sansa did and giggled when Sandor kissed and bit the back of her neck. Then he made his way over to her shoulder and down one side of her back. Sansa tensed when he neared her waist and squealed when he didn't stop there. It was erotic agony as he trailed his lips and drew his tongue over her arse but she laughed again as his kisses tickled the back of her thigh and knee. Then she rolled on to her side. “Enough,” she pleaded, embarrassed to have had his mouth _there_.

 

“I only did one side,” he argued with a smile, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

 

“It’s your turn,” was all Sansa said in response.

 

Sandor let his eyes glide approvingly over Sansa's body. He moved to lean against the headboard again and coaxed her into a straddle in his lap. Sansa braced herself for his request.

 

"Teats. Touch me with them."  
  
Sansa smiled. "That's against the rules. You lose a turn."

 

Sandor's mouth dropped open and Sansa laughed at his expression.

 

Sandor wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her breasts with his face, kissing them here and there.

 

“Hey,” Sansa protested before sinking into him. "You're cheating," she added with no force at all.

 

"Don't pretend you're surprised," he answered between kisses.

 

For a long moment she gave in to the feel of him. “It’s my turn,” she eventually murmured.

  
"Let me have you, Sansa. Please."

  
“Eyes," she answered, backing away.

 

He stopped kissing her though his chest heaved.

 

"Watch." Sansa felt wet, achy, and empty but she took her time. She let her gaze drop down to his groin. She couldn't see him beneath her but she imagined he could at least see their silhouettes against the light of the fire. She raised herself up on her knees and aligned his manhood with her woman's place. As slowly as she could, she sank on to the length of him, feeling him drive deeper and deeper into her. Sandor groaned but watched as she'd said to until they were fully joined and then he rolled his head back and regarded her with hazy eyes.

 

"Aye, again," he rasped, his hands firm on her hips, urging her upward.

 

"Not yet," Sansa said, adjusting to the feel of him. She leaned in and kissed him. His arms crushed her against him and his tongue sought to part her lips as his hips rose up.

 

She gave a small laugh against his mouth and pushed her hips back down. "Wait," she admonished gently, laughing more when he growled in response.

  
"Trying to kill me, little bird?" he murmured, his hands kneading her hips.

  
"You wanted me to show you -"

  
"Have mercy and show me faster."

  
Sansa leaned in, pinning him against the headboard, and traced the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue. Sandor shook beneath her. "I have all night to show you," she said quietly, holding his shoulders and pulling herself up over the length of him with a slight moan.

 

"All night," he said through gritted teeth.

 

"Aye," she teased, gliding back down his length.

 

"Girl -" He met her eyes but Sansa continued to move over him and he didn't finish his thought, only sucked in some air through his teeth and matched the quickening movement of her hips.   


Sansa's body fell into a steady tempo but Sandor remained restless. His eyes roved over her hungrily, sometimes watching himself plunge into her, other times taking in the bouncing of her teats before raising his overheated gaze to her face with an expression of both lust and disbelief. Sansa liked it, liked drawing this reaction from him. She let her head fall back and made whatever noises came to her, heedless of everything but the pleasure she was feeling.

  
"Gods, _gods_ ," Sandor muttered, his own head back and his big hands holding her hips. His mouth was hanging open. And then his thumb brushed over her apex and Sansa cried aloud. He did it again, and again, and she looked down at him as he looked up at her. Sansa gasped, her chest heaving like a stormy sea, and when she hit her peak, her body quivered over his of its own accord, setting its own wild rhythm and drawing him to completion with a protracted groan as he bucked his hips under her.  


Sandor caught her when she made to move off of him. He guided her off of him slowly, watching as his glistening manhood was unsheathed by her body, his head lolling back when she at last released him.

 

And then he started to laugh.

 

"What?" Sansa asked.

 

" _What?"_ she asked again more insistently when he wouldn't stop chuckling.

 

"You fucked me like a wildling," he said, amused, as he moved forward and guided Sansa on to her back, laying close to her on his side, his hand soft on her belly, her head on his upper arm.

 

"How would you know?"

 

Sandor laughed. "I wouldn't."

 

Sansa gave a satisfied huff.

 

“I don’t want a wildling . . .” After a moment, he raised his head to look at her. "Sansa, there won't be any others while I'm away."

 

Sansa rested her hand on his heart and looked up at him. His face was set, watching her reaction. "For me, either," she said.

 

He pulled her tightly against him.  


"I don't like to think of you leaving," Sansa added quietly.

 

"I'll come back to you."'

 

"That's all I want."

 

She felt him smile.

  
After a pause, Sandor asked, "Will you keep some of my things while I'm gone?"  


"Of course. What would you like me to keep?"

 

"The portrait of my sister, some things I'll put in a trunk for you . . ."

  
Sansa nodded against his shoulder. "Anything you want."

  
Sandor chuckled and Sansa, knowing what he was thinking, laughed, too.

  
*

 

The next thing Sansa knew, it was very early morning. Pale gray light was coming through the windows. Sandor was propped up on his elbow, gazing at her and absentmindedly twisting the ends of her hair around his fingers.  


"Have you been awake long?" Sansa asked, a little embarrassed that he'd been watching her sleep.

 

"Long enough. Are you hungry?"  


"I don't want to leave just yet."

  
"You don't have to." Sandor slid out of bed and walked naked to his table. He opened the bag he'd brought in with him last night. It contained some apples, bread, and cheese.

 

Sansa found her own bag, ducked into the privy, and quickly brushed her teeth.

  
"Come here," Sandor said when she returned. He was back in bed, covered to the waist with a sheet, the food on a platter in his lap. A jug of small ale was on the nightstand.

  
Sansa got back in bed and Sandor held out an arm which she tucked herself under, her head resting against his shoulder.

  
"Apple?" he asked, offering her a piece from the point of his knife.

  
She plucked it off and popped it in her mouth. They ate in a companionable silence, Sansa snuggled close to Sandor. This closeness felt just right. Her hair was a mess, her mouth tasted of ale, and she was covered only by a sheet but she didn't feel a shred of discomfort. When they finished, she remarked, "I wish we could do this every morning."

  
Sandor set the platter aside but didn't reply.

 

She looked back and up at him.

 

He leaned down and kissed her. A moment later he slid down and maneuvered himself on top of her. "Let me have you again," he said in a husky voice close to her ear.

 

A flurry of tingles quickened her blood. She nodded, not knowing what to say. Sandor's response was muffled because his face was pressed between her breasts. He was in no hurry as he made his way over her with his lips, hands, and tongue. When he finally made love to her, it was slow and sweet and Sansa clung to him. He didn't immediately withdraw after shuddering to completion inside her but instead lingered, enfolding her in his arms, and murmuring, "My little bird."

  
They lay entwined in each other, exchanging small kisses, Sansa drawing her fingertips in lazy patterns over Sandor's chest and he rubbing her shoulder and back. Eventually, Sandor's grip on her loosened and his breathing became deeper. Sansa watched him as he slept. She barely noticed his scars anymore. He’d become singular in other ways. She wondered at ever having been indifferent toward him and gave a slight shake of her head as she thought of how very unlikely it was that they’d become lovers. He loved her as she loved him and, whatever path she thought her life might have taken before, she gave a silent prayer of thanks to the old gods and the new for bringing them together and uniting them as a man and a woman.

 

*

 

Sansa floated through the castle as though on a cloud. Her happiness seemed to reflect off of everyone and shine back on her with twice the warmth as she made her way to the great hall. Arya was at her seat, the chair next to her pulled out so Nymeria could lie beside her. Sansa didn’t even frown when Arya dropped bacon on the floor for her direwolf.

 

“Good morning,” Sansa sang as she sat down and a maid set a variety of foods in front of her.

 

"Pass the jam, please," Sansa added brightly despite her sister’s lack of response. She wasn't very hungry but it hardly mattered. The world was a perfect place and a slice of toasted bread and jam wouldn’t mar the morning.

  
Arya glanced over and all but slammed down the jam pot in front of her. Sansa saw no reason for such behavior on such a glorious morning and gave Arya an affronted look. Her sister turned away with a glower.

 

"What's bothering you?" Sansa asked.

 

"The same thing that would be bothering you if you didn't have your head in the clouds all the time. They're _leaving._ Don't you get it?"

 

"Well, of course they're leaving -"

 

"In a few days, Sansa."

 

"What?"

  
"They're leaving in a few days."

  
"How do you know?"  


Arya looked at her like Sansa was making a very poor joke. " _Everyone_ knows."

 

Sansa could only goggle back at her sister.

  
"Everyone's getting their armor and swords ready. Gendry's been working from morning til night. The squires have been running around like mad. Or haven't you noticed?"

 

Gendry's being busy explained her sister's mood but Sansa wasn't concerned about that right now. "Sandor didn't say anything."  


"Did he _have_ to?"

 

Suddenly Sansa snapped to and all her joy faded away and she went numb. She thought about finding Sandor but there was nothing he could say that would change anything. She'd just been so happy recently that Sandor's leaving hadn't seemed really, truly imminent. She wondered, vaguely, if Sandor had pressed for a night with her because he knew he'd be leaving soon. It seemed likely but it didn't matter. Sansa wanted to spend every night with him . . .

 

“Are you certain?”

 

Arya gave her a dark look. “If you don’t believe me, ask Father.”

 

“I believe you. I just . . .”

 

A flash of sympathy crossed Arya’s face. “After I eat, I’m going to go to the yard. Do you want to go?”

 

“All right,” Sansa agreed apathetically.

 

After they finished eating, Arya scarfing down everything in front of her, Sansa picking at the crust of her toast, they left the great hall, Nymeria between them. They happened upon their parents on a balcony that overlooked the training yard.

 

"Hound's going easy on them," their father was commenting as they approached. "He must be in a good mood today."

  
"War's coming. He probably can't wait to stick his sword into someone," their mother muttered in response.

 

Sansa bit her lip.

 

“Father,” Arya said, “Sansa doesn’t think you’re really leaving in a few days.”

 

Sansa shot a look at Arya and said, “I just didn’t realize it would be so soon.”

 

Unease pinched at her father’s features. “Yes, it will be soon.”

 

“It seems like we just returned home!”

 

“I know,” Ned replied, walking over to wrap an arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “But Stannis has asked for our aid and we can’t refuse him.”

 

Sansa nodded numbly.

 

Her father continued, “I’ve called a final meeting with my bannermen for the day after tomorrow. Your mother will be there and I’d like the two of you to be there as well.”

 

Nymeria bumped against his leg and whined.

 

“And you, too, girl,” Ned added with a slight smile, ruffling the direwolf’s fur before continuing. “Winterfell will be in your hands while I’m gone and the arrangements I’ve made should be known to you.”

 

“We’ll be perfectly safe here,” Catelyn added, casting a worried eye over her daughters. “A full complement of guards will remain behind.”

 

“What if we need weapons?” Arya asked.

 

“Arya -” their mother began but Ned laughed.

 

“Then have Gendry make some to add to our stores, though your sword appears to be in fine shape to me,” he said with a nod at the blade hanging from her belt.

 

“Who else is staying?” Sansa asked with no hope of hearing Sandor’s name.

 

Ned began to rattle off names but was soon hailed from the yard.

 

“I’ll explain more in two days,” he promised. He brushed a kiss against Catelyn’s cheek, smiled at his daughters, patted Nymeria, and was gone.


	29. Chapter 29

The great hall could hold no more. Sansa was seated to the side with her mother, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Her father stood in the middle of the dais with Robb, who would be going with him, and Theon, who was to serve as Robb’s squire, seated behind them. The Stark bannermen filled the benches and lined the walls. Even the servants and maids stood in the far back of the room and spilled out into the hall, eager to know what lay ahead.

 

As her father thanked the men for their loyalty and reiterated Lord Stannis’s request for aid, Sansa let her eye wander over the crowd until it rested on Sandor. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. He turned, met her eye, and returned his attention to her father. Sansa did the same.

 

“Lady Catelyn will travel to the Eyrie and treat with her sister, Lady Lysa Arryn. The Vale’s men, crops, and supplies may be needed and Lady Arryn needs to be convinced to join Stannis’s cause. Lady Catelyn is best suited to that task.”

 

A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall. Sansa had thought her mother would remain at Winterfell but, as she didn’t appear surprised by this news, she knew her parents must have discussed it long before today.

 

Her father went over some more details. “Mikken will travel with us, Gendry will stay behind. A corps of men, as able and loyal as those leaving, will remain to protect Winterfell.” Ned called out their names and, one by one, they assembled on the far side of the room.

 

While this was going on, Maester Luwin entered the hall and slowly made his way toward the dais. The chattering that had increased among the men quieted as he passed, the tone becoming one of inquiry rather than idle talk.

 

“My lord,” he said when he reached the foot of the dais. “This just arrived for you.” He reached out and handed Ned a scroll.

 

Ned looked at the scroll for a moment before unfurling it. His expression hardened. When he looked up, there was silence in the hall.

 

“The Lannisters have laid siege to Riverrun.”

 

Sansa heard her mother gasp as a roar went up from the men.

 

Ned held up his hands. The noise lessened but did not die out as men continued to whisper to each other. “We must go to Riverrun.”

 

The Greatjon stood up. “They’re trying to draw you out, the bastards. They’ll want to split Stannis’s forces in hopes that we’ll be easier to deal with in pieces. We should attack King’s Landing.” He turned toward the area where the Starks were seated. “Sorry, Cat, but your brother should be able to withstand a siege. The Riverlands are well supplied.”

 

Many men voiced their agreement.

 

Ned called for order and said, “We will go to Riverrun.”

 

“Who’s leading the siege?”

 

Ned pressed his lips into a line before answering. “Gregor Clegane.”

 

All heads swiveled in Sandor’s direction. Sansa heard “turncloak” muttered and her heart clenched.

 

“When do we leave for Riverrun?” was all Sandor said.

 

“Tomorrow,” Ned replied. He would have gone on but he was interrupted.

 

“How do we know he’s not here just to lead us into his brother’s trap?” one man-at-arms wanted to know, nodding toward Sandor.

 

“Clegane has agreed to fight for the north and he will be under the Greatjon’s command, despite his field experience," was all Ned said in response.

 

This clearly didn’t satisfy everyone but no one challenged Ned further on that point.

 

“We should still go to King’s Landing,” someone shouted.

 

“And get caught on the kingsroad between the Lannisters and Clegane?" another man answered. "No, we have no choice but go to the Riverlands. Let Stannis sail into the Blackwater and engage the Lannisters there."

 

“Maester Luwin, write to Lord Stannis and tell him we will go to Riverrun first,” Ned said over the din.

 

“They’re drawing you out, Ned,” the Greatjon cautioned. “Joffrey wants to punish you for not supporting his claim to the throne. This maneuver smells of Tywin Lannister. Gregor Clegane answers to no one else.”

 

“Then our true opponent is known to us.”

 

“How many men do they have?” called a voice from the back.

 

“Same as we have, if the report is accurate,” Ned replied.

 

Sansa’s head was spinning. The arguments flew back and forth about their allegiance to Stannis.

 

"You Northerners forget your history,” Sandor said in a voice that cut across the hall. “Be an independent region again. Make Lord Stark King of the North and expand his territory through the Tullys and the Arryns. The North is protected by the Neck. The Eyrie is impregnable. Only Riverrun is vulnerable. Gather your forces there. Join the three areas together. Fuck the throne and answer only to yourselves.”

 

There was some eye-rolling but there were more nods of agreement. Sansa saw Robb sit up straighter. “King of the North?” he said.

 

"The idea has merit,” someone agreed. 

 

"What about the Others? Or the wildlings? We'll need support if they come over the Wall."

 

"The Others take the Others. And the wildlings. You think the capital will empty out to help us should either of them come? They'll run south."

 

"Prince Doran is no friend of the Lannisters. We could form an alliance with Dorne."

 

"Dorne is leagues and leagues away! We'd spend all our time battling pirates in the Narrow Sea."

 

"Who needs a prince in the south when we could have a king in the north?

 

"The King of the North!"

 

Ned held up his hands. “I’ve sworn my allegiance to Stannis and it’s his cause for which I’ll fight."

 

There was some griping as the details were hashed out but the men knew their lord and eventually quieted down. Ned called for their departure at an early hour. The men all rose, some filtering out, some standing and talking in small groups, and a few approaching Ned to speak with him directly. Sansa saw Sandor talking with one of the Greatjon’s sons but was then pulled away by her mother.

 

Sansa had hoped her family could dine together privately that night but her father insisted they share the meal with the men in the great hall. Afterwards, they did spend an hour together in their solar but then Ned was called away and Catelyn insisted everyone else get to bed for some rest. 

 

Sansa went to her room but wasn't sleepy. She rooted through her sewing basket and did a little stitching as her mind ran over the events of the day. Sansa had experienced such a wide spectrum of emotions that they eventually pulled her eyelids down, though pangs of worry jolted her awake several times after she finally dozed off.

 

*

 

The next morning, Sansa went directly to Sandor’s room. The door was open and Sandor was seated in front of his mirror. Harry was adjusting some straps on his armor.

 

“Good morning,” she said, though it was the worst of mornings. Part of her wanted to cry though it still didn't seem real that they were leaving.

 

“Lady Sansa,” said Harry with a broad smile and a tip of his head.

 

“You can take that trunk to Lady Sansa’s room,” Sandor said, nodding at it.

 

“My maid is still there, Harry. Please tell her I’d like it put next to my wardrobe.”

 

The trunk was not large and Harry was able to hoist it onto his shoulder. With a nod, he left them.

 

Sansa moved to stand behind Sandor. They looked at each other in the mirror. A heavy sadness weighed on her. Sandor appeared to be scowling but Sansa knew he was upset, too. Needing something to do, Sansa reached around him and picked up his comb. She pulled it through his long hair.

 

“Is there anything else you’d like me to take care of while you’re gone?”

 

“You’re not my squire, little bird," he said in a flat voice.

 

“I’d like to have something to do while you’re gone. Are all of your things packed?” She looked around the room. The shield bearing the Clegane sigil was still above the fireplace.

 

“Everything of value is now in your room. The rest of my clothes are in those trunks. I suppose Rikard will put them in storage.”

 

“No, he won’t.” Sansa reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. “I’ve instructed Rikard that this room is to be kept ready for your return. I took the extra key. If anything is misplaced, he has been made aware that he will answer for it.”

 

The flicker of a sad smile passed over Sandor’s lips. Sansa returned the key to her pocket and continued to comb Sandor’s hair.

 

“Little bird . . .”

 

Sansa looked up. “Yes?”

 

“I meant what I said. There will be no others,” he said quietly.

 

Sansa put down the comb and gripped the cold paldrons covering his shoulders. “No,” she agreed just as quietly. “No others.”

 

Sandor reached for the flagon sitting on his table and took a long swig from it.

 

Sansa ran her fingers through his hair. There was so much to say and yet nothing to be said. To distract herself, she gathered part of Sandor’s hair into sections and began to cross them into a net-like braid.

 

“I don’t want you to fight your brother,” she said, keeping her eyes on her work.

 

Sandor blew out a breath. “It has to happen.”

 

“Does it?”

 

“He killed my family and made me look like the monster that he is. Yes, little bird, it has to happen. For my sister if not for me.”

 

Sansa had no reply. Sandor watched as she continued braiding his hair. She expected him to protest but he turned his head to look at it and said, “I like it. Can you do more?”

 

Sansa made two more braids so that the rough skin of his scars seemed to blend into the bumpy texture of the braids, giving that side of his face a reptilian quality. The other side she left loose. The contrast was striking. _Frightening_ , Sansa thought, _for anyone who doesn't know his true nature._

 

When she was done, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. He rose and turned, looking down at her from his impressive height. Gently, Sandor pulled her against him and bent to give her a lingering kiss. Sansa wished he wasn't in his armor so she could truly feel him in her arms once more. 

 

"I -," he began to say quietly against her ear just as voices sounded in the hall.

 

Sandor stepped away and reached for his gauntlets on the table, his back to Sansa. A moment later, Ned and the Greatjon walked through the door. Their eyes widened to see Sansa in the Hound's bedchambers, though Ned's quickly narrowed.

 

"Lady Sansa," the Greatjon said.

 

"Father, my lord," she answered.

 

"We have some things to discuss with Clegane," her father said.

 

"Of course."

Sandor turned and looked at her.

  
"I'll pray for your safety," she said, distressed that they’d run out of time to be alone.

 

"My thanks,” he said with a nod.

 

*

 

Too soon, Sansa stood on a dais in the yard with her family and looked out at the mass of men and horses crowding the courtyard and bailey. Sandor was in the rear, near the gate, since he would be among those leading the column down the kingsroad. Her father spoke of the importance of their mission and assured the men of their certain victory. With a rousing cheer and much jostling, everyone turned toward the gate. The crowd separated for Ned and Robb as they made their way to their mounts. The women who would be following the men smiled and laughed, eager for their new adventure. Sansa did not envy them. She'd had enough adventure. She wanted for nothing more than to have Sandor return to her safe and whole. He was easy to find, sitting higher in his saddle than those around him. She squeezed the ribbons she was holding in her sweaty palm. She suddenly felt as though she couldn't breathe. Before she knew what she was doing, she jumped off the dais and began threading her way through the crowd.

 

"Sansa!" her mother called after her.

 

Sansa heard but pushed off the flank of a horse and kept working her way forward. When she was nearly to Sandor, she noticed a ribbon threaded through and wrapped around the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. _Who else would have presented him with a favor?_ she wondered, her feet momentarily unable to take another step. Then something about the color struck her as familiar. She forced herself forward and called, "Sandor!"

 

He turned, disbelieving.

 

"Is that . . . ?"

 

"Is what?" His brows were drawn together; his eyes darted back toward the dais before returning to her face, confusion mixed with warning.

 

Sansa could feel more than a few eyes on her. She motioned to him and he bent down to hear her. She dropped her voice to a whisper, "The ribbon. Is that from my smallclothes? From King's Landing?"

 

His eyes grew soft and he gave a small nod. "Do you mind?"

 

Sansa blushed and felt shy. She knew he'd taken it but she'd never imagined he'd kept it all this time. To see something of hers, so intimate, wrapped around his sword for anyone to see made her giddy. "No, I don't mind." She smiled. "I have something else for you, though."

 

A smile played across his face though Sansa knew he was trying to hide it. "Then let me have it, girl."

 

"Come down here, please."

 

Sandor dismounted and stood before her in full armor, the steel muscles of his paldrons and cuisses no competition for what Sansa knew lay beneath. Despite the dog’s-head helm under his arm and his exposed scars, Sansa didn't see the Hound at all. Sandor’s gray eyes shined with restrained excitement and she could see he was breathing faster. Sansa's smile broadened. She took his elbow and drew it away from his body. Sandor watched her fingers as she knotted a strip of cloth around his bicep. On the yellow fabric she'd embroidered the three black dogs of House Clegane. Black and yellow streamers hung down to his elbow. Sandor stood straight and tall as Sansa took a step away from him. "My thanks, Lady Sansa," he said, pride in his voice.

 

"I wish you a sure and safe return, my lord."

 

Sandor bowed as much as his armor would allow. Sansa dipped into a quick curtsy. For a moment, they just looked at each other. A lump rose in Sansa's throat and she was overcome by the urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

 

"I wish it, too, my lady."

 

Sansa gave him a wobbly smile and then turned to make her way back through the throng of men and horses. Everyone seemed to be looking at her, most with surprise, some with confusion, a few with resentment. Various muttered comments reached her ears. "- never would have thought -" "- that ugly bugger?" "Got something for me, pretty?" Doubt began to stir within her, then true worry as she reached her family. Summer, Shaggydog, and Nymeria’s heads all turned in unison as Sansa approached the dais, Nymeria giving a small yip. Bran didn’t seem to notice Sansa’s return. Rickon was busy taking in the excitement, calling out and waving to various people. Arya's face was composed but her eyes were laughing. Their mother was incensed.

 

"Sansa!" Catelyn said in a low, sharp voice. "What is the matter with you? Why did you do that?"

 

 _No man should have to leave for war feeling uncared for._ She nearly said it. It was a compassionate answer but it was not the truth, not entirely anyway. Sansa looked out across the courtyard. Her father was in front, shouting orders, Robb to his right. The yellow band and streamers on Sandor's arm were clearly visible. If possible, he seemed to be sitting even taller in his saddle than before. Sansa felt an overwhelming surge of pride and love for him. She looked into her mother's blue eyes and said, "I did it because I wanted to."

 

Just then, the gates were opened and the men and horses filed out. Sandor reached back and briefly touched the ribbon tied to his hilt but he didn't turn around. Sansa fled the dais and ran the entire way to her room where she flung herself on her bed and sobbed until her throat was raw. She heard her door open and close but she didn't care who it was. A hand squeezed her shoulder.

 

"Sansa," her mother said.

 

Sansa sat up, leaned against her mother, and cried on her shoulder. Catelyn patted her daughter's back and made shushing sounds. After a while, Sansa collected herself and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief her mother offered. Catelyn's eyes were sympathetic but her lips were pressed together.

 

*

 

The next morning, Sansa sat in her family’s solar and mournfully did her stitching. Her mother was writing to Lady Lysa for more information on the mountain clans, her offer of a visit having been previously accepted. Catelyn kept casting glances in her daughter's direction but Sansa refused to meet her eye.

 

“They’re coming back!” Arya shrieked out of nowhere.

 

“What?” Sansa dropped her sewing and ran to the window. Far down the road were two horsemen under a Stark banner, a small cloud of dust in their wake. “It’s just two riders. I thought you meant they were all returning.”

 

“Maybe they are,” Arya said excitedly.

 

The girls ran to the great hall with Catelyn on their heels. Word of the riders had spread through the castle and others were moving in that direction. The Starks stood on the dais and waited until Jory and Desmond entered the hall, a smaller figure in a hooded cloak between them. They looked a little surprised to see the crowd awaiting them but walked to the front of the hall and stood before Catelyn.

 

“This is a somewhat private matter, my lady,” Jory said quietly.

 

“Leave us, please,” Catelyn announced.

 

It took several minutes but the onlookers dispersed.

 

Sansa wondered if she should go but her mother didn't look at her so she stayed put.

 

“My lady, Lord Stark sent us to return Jeyne to your care.” Jory pulled back the hood to reveal the tear-streaked face of Jeyne Poole.

 

“Jeyne!” her mother exclaimed as Sansa stared bewildered at her friend.

 

“Tell her what you did, girl,” Desmond urged quietly.

 

Between sniffles, Jeyne mumbled, “I wanted to return to King’s Landing.”

 

“Whatever for?” Catelyn asked, coming down the steps to stand in front of her, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

 

“Willard!” she wailed.

 

Catelyn turned to look at Sansa, not understanding. Sansa approached. “Willard is a very nice young man, Mother. He’s a Lannister man-at-arms who befriended Jeyne when we were in the capital,” she explained in an undertone.

 

Jeyne hung her head and Sansa’s heart broke for her.

 

“And you wanted to return to the city, even in the midst of a war, to see this young man again?” Catelyn asked.

 

“I love him,” Jeyne blubbered.

 

Catelyn pulled in the corner of her mouth.

 

“We must be getting back, my lady,” Jory said.

 

“Of course. Thank you both for returning her safely.”

 

Jory and Desmond accepted her thanks and quickly left to rejoin the rest of the Stark men.

 

“Come with me,” Catelyn said, leaving the hall with Jeyne in tow.

 

Sansa and Arya didn't say a word as the two of them left. Sansa knew Jeyne must be mortified beyond words. She watched with pity as her friend trailed after her mother.

 

*

 

Later that evening, as her mother brushed Sansa’s hair, Catelyn said, "The foolish girl attempted to disguise herself and travel to Riverrun as part of the baggage train."

 

Sansa's eyes widened. She'd had no idea her friend was thinking of doing such a thing, let alone was capable of actually going through with it.

 

"Apparently," Catelyn continued huffily, "one of the men propositioned her and, when she refused, her identity was discovered. You can imagine how quickly word traveled up the line to your father, as though he didn't have enough to worry about!"

 

"What did you say to Jeyne?" Sansa asked.

 

"Jeyne is in no doubt as to my feelings about her behavior," Catelyn said stiffly.

 

Sansa listened with a heavy heart as her mother described how Jeyne had sobbed and sobbed but Catelyn simply proceeded to fill Jeyne’s schedule. She was to be busy morning until night with lessons, not just with Maester Luwin - "A privilege, not a punishment" - but also with Joanne and every other available adult with a skill to share.

 

“I have half a mind to ask you to watch over her,” Sansa's mother concluded, “but I don’t think that would do either of you any good.”

 

Sansa's feelings were still raw from the previous day and she raised indignant eyes to look at her mother in the mirror. "I didn't conceal myself in the baggage train."

 

"No, but you did give a favor to a man whose presence still offends half our bannermen."

 

"If the bannermen don't like it, they can consult their lord. I didn't see any of them refusing to go. And if they're only going in hopes of winning my hand, that is their expectation, not mine. If it's the north they want, they'd do better to court Robb." Sansa was instantly abashed by her words and the scandalized look on her mother's face. "I'm sorry," she added, an irrational irritability overtaking her.

 

Catelyn stilled for a moment before continuing to brush Sansa's hair. "It's been a hard few days for all of us."

 

Sansa nodded and was grateful her mother seemed willing to let the matter drop.

 

*

 

The next morning Sansa and Jeyne ate together in glum silence. Winterfell felt desolate. The gaping void inside Sansa seemed to expand every moment Sandor was gone. Sansa felt her mother’s eyes on her and wasn’t surprised when she approached after Sansa had risen and Jeyne had left for the first of her many daily lessons.

 

“Sansa,” Catelyn said without preamble, “you’re going to come to the Vale with me.”

 


	30. Chapter 30

Sansa's initial shock melted into an indifferent numbness. If Sandor wasn't at Winterfell, it didn't matter if she was, either. Besides, she wasn't sure she could take much more of Arya's cheerfulness. "Fine," she answered. "When do we leave?"

 

"When your aunt has answered my questions about the mountain clans. We should be on our way within a fortnight," Catelyn said.

  
Sansa's chest tightened but she nodded.

  
*

  
That day and the next were difficult for Sansa. Tears came easily and the hours dragged on forever. She was filled with regret. Why hadn't she begged her father to allow her to write to Sandor? Maybe if she sent a letter to Riverrun, her uncle or grandfather could find a way to get it to Sandor . . . But she knew she couldn't do that. Her mother would be furious and anything Sansa had to say was meant for Sandor alone.

 

She thought her melancholy was due to missing him but the next morning when she woke up, there was a heaviness in her lower belly as well as in her heart. She sat up and felt the ooze of her moonblood and let out a gasp. She'd not given a thought to her cycle since she and Sandor had become lovers and, now, its return chilled her more than a drenching of ice water could have done. Sansa was stunned that she'd never considered she might be with child. How could she have been so stupid? Where had her mind been? Another thought took hold of her: now that there was no child, if Sandor was, gods forbid, killed in the war, there was no connection with him. Sansa wasn't sure if she'd avoided a disaster or missed an opportunity. Her conflicting feelings made her jaw tremble and her maid, Theresa, found her choking on her tears, rubbing at her reddened eyes with her fists.

  
"Oh, my lady! What's wrong? What is it?"

 

"It's just my moonblood," Sansa said miserably. _I'm a buggering fool_ , she thought, and then cried louder at hearing Sandor's words in her head.

 

Theresa patted her in alarm.

 

"I'm sorry, it's just -"

 

"I'll have a hot bath drawn for you, my lady, and I'll bring some tea. You'll feel better for it."

 

Sansa nodded and tried to get herself back under control. "That's very kind. I thank you," she croaked out in a broken voice.

 

"Shall I send word to Lady Stark that you'll break your fast in your chambers?" Theresa suggested quietly.

 

"Yes. Please." Sansa chided herself for not thinking of that first.

 

Theresa gave her a weak smile and seemed a little relieved that Sansa had calmed down. "Right away, my lady."

 

When Theresa left, Sansa crawled out of bed. Her nightgown and sheets were clean but her smallclothes were dabbed red. Sansa looked at the blood and bit down on her lower lip. She knew without a doubt that having a child would have been disastrous but, at the same time, the thought of cuddling Sandor's babe in her arms made her heart clench with a need she'd never felt before. She wondered how Sandor would have felt about it and was saddened and surprised that they'd never discussed it. She remained in disbelief that she, and they, had been so negligent. She'd heard whispers about moon tea but had no idea how to get it. Asking Maester Luwin was out of the question. Not that it mattered now. She was without both Sandor and his child. Sansa supposed she should feel relieved but mournfulness clutched at her anyway.

Her thoughts were interrupted by several junior maids lugging in buckets of hot water under Theresa's direction. They filled her tub while Theresa pinned up Sansa's hair. Theresa moved a small table next to the tub and set on it a tray of food containing a pot of steaming tea, buns studded with raisins, small pots of jam, honey, and butter, a bowl of sliced fruit, and, Sansa smiled when she saw it, a small lemon cake. She thanked the maids sincerely and slipped into the water. The heat and steam worked out the kinks in her mind as well as the ache in her belly.

 

Sansa emerged from the tub a long while later feeling more settled. She was not pregnant. How she felt about it one way or the other was irrelevant. There was no child and that was that. Sandor was not there so becoming pregnant would not be a possibility until his return. She would discuss the matter with him then. As much as she loved him, they would have to modify their reckless behavior or else risk destroying whatever small amount of acceptance Sandor had built up at Winterfell since their return. Sansa nodded to herself, satisfied with her conclusions, but as she dressed, her resolve wavered, her lip trembled, and she fought to keep the tears from flowing. She took a steadying breath. _What's done is done. It's the gods' will._

 

Still, she missed Sandor. She put on the bracelet he'd given her for Sevenmas so long ago and decided she'd spend the morning sewing. Sewing was always relaxing for Sansa. It only required as much concentration as she felt like giving it, freeing her mind to wander at will or absorbing her in the intricacies of her stitches. Then the idea struck her that she could sew in Sandor's room.

 

She retrieved the spare key from the box where her dagger was hidden and walked directly to the room. Now that Sandor was no longer in residence there, Sansa didn’t feel a need to hide her destination. She passed a few maids and a lone squire but the castle was so deserted even that felt like a lot of traffic.

 

Sansa entered the room and locked the door behind her. The bed had been stripped and the curtains taken away for cleaning but otherwise the room was largely unchanged. Sandor’s trunks still remained under the window. She stared at them for a moment and then decided she’d like to go through them.

 

Setting her sewing basket on the bed, she crossed the room and opened one of the trunks. Sandor’s characteristic masculine scent rose from it and for a moment Sansa couldn’t move, so many memories and sensations did she associate with it. She pulled out the tunic on top and buried her face in it, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. It smelled so much like him, even through the scent of soap, that it brought a smile to her face and an upsurge of gratitude in her heart for the time they’d been able to spend together.

 

Sansa held the tunic out in front of her and gave it a good look. It wasn’t one she saw him wear often and, no wonder, the hem had come undone along a few inches of one side and there was some fraying along the neckline. She hugged the tunic to her chest and looked in the trunk again. The clothing was folded, if a little haphazardly. She put the tunic she was holding on the bed and rooted through the rest. This trunk contained mainly tunics along with some smallclothes and old cloaks. The other trunk held pants, socks, and some swordbelts and leather pieces Sansa had never seen Sandor use. The second trunk could wait.

 

Suddenly filled with purpose, Sansa sorted Sandor’s tunics with a critical eye, setting aside anything that was in even remote need of mending. The rest she folded crisply and divided into stacks, one for warm weather, one for cold. Then she settled on the bed, drew the first tunic into her lap, and began to stitch. Before long, she found herself humming and was surprised to realize that she felt happy. The morning passed by agreeably and Sansa was able to complete most of her mending. One blue tunic had a tear in the front that could not be concealed with deft stitching or remedied in any other way but with a patch, which Sansa dismissed as being for beggars and well below a man of Sandor’s repute. She set that tunic aside, sure she’d come up with a solution later.

 

Sansa’s growling stomach alerted her to how much time had passed. She made her way to the great hall and encountered Arya heading in the same direction.

 

"Where have you been all morning?" her sister asked.

 

"I was sewing."

 

Arya gave her a pitying look. "Do you know when you're leaving yet?"

 

"Are you in such a rush for us to be gone?"

 

"Not really."

 

Sansa stopped and leveled a look at her sister. "Is Gendry in such a rush for us to be gone?" she asked quietly.

 

"Sansa, don't be -"

 

"Right?"

 

"Smug."

 

Sansa laughed. "I'm not but you know it's not proper for Gendry to wish for the absence of his lady."

 

"He didn't," Arya said heatedly.

 

"So _you_ want us gone."

 

"I want . . ." Arya looked up and down the hall. As some maids passed, she plucked at Sansa's sleeve and dragged her into a corner. "I want him to stop calling me 'm'lady.'"

 

Sansa's brow wrinkled. "Why? You are -"

 

“Does Clegane call you 'my lady?'"

 

Sansa's stomach swooped. He only called her that now when he was teasing her. Their relationship no longer required such formality. "No, but -"

 

"But it's no different."

  
Sansa didn't wish to be explicit so she chose her words carefully. "It's different. _They're_ different. For the longest time, Sandor's 'lady' was Queen Cersei -"

 

Arya curled her lip in distaste.

 

"I know. So he knows that not all ladies are . . ."

 

“Like you?"

Sansa gave an uneasy chuckle. She was guilty of some very unladylike behavior that Sandor more than knew about. "I suppose so but Gendry wouldn't know that, would he? He never spent any time at court. It's not surprising that he'd be deferential and he's right to be hesitant. He'd be at the Wall right now if not for Father. He's in debt to our lord father in a way that Sandor isn't."

 

Arya seemed to think that over. "When you and Clegane . . ."

 

Sansa stiffened. "When we what?"

 

"He's kissed you . . . right?" Arya whispered.

 

Sansa gave the smallest nod in response.

  
"Did you kiss him first or did he kiss you?"

 

"He kissed me."

 

Arya cast a disgruntled look to the side.

 

Sansa pitied her sister even as she was surprised by how clearly Sandor had seen the situation from the start.

 

"Why do you think Clegane likes you?"

 

Sansa stood straighter. She'd never stopped to think about it. "Are you saying he only likes me because I'm highborn?"

 

“I think he's taken in by all the frilly things about you. I think he likes that you’re a _real_ lady."

  
“Perhaps." Sansa knew Sandor’s hatred of hypocrisy ran deep and that he’d initially scorned her when he thought she was just reciting pretty words to him. “Do you think Gendry likes you?”

 

“I don’t know. He spars with me, argues with me . . . Sometimes, it’s like he forgets who I am and he’ll actually laugh but then he’ll remember again and back away and call me ‘m’lady.’”

 

“Well, you're still Lady Arya of House Stark whether you like it or not.”

 

Arya frowned. "I don't want to be a lady."

This had always puzzled Sansa about her sister. "I'm sure Gendry has realized that by now."

 

"If he has, he won’t stop acting like it. That's why I'm hoping, when you and Mother leave, that he'll . . ."

 

“Kiss you?"

 

"No!"

 

"Then what?"

 

"Just stop calling me 'm'lady' all the time."

 

"He's not going to forget that you're highborn."

 

"That didn't matter to Clegane. Why should it matter to Gendry?"

 

Sansa didn't want to point out that Sandor's family held land, however recently acquired, while Gendry's heritage was distinctly more lackluster, or that Sandor was known throughout Westeros for his fighting ability while Gendry was the cast-out apprentice of a merchant.

 

Arya went on. "And anyway, he doesn't need to forget that I'm highborn. He just needs to stop acting like I'm different because of it."

 

"And he's going to do that as soon as Mother and I leave?"

  
"He’s not going to do it while you’re here."

 

“Have you asked him not to call you “my lady?’”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. “If I did, he’d say, ‘Yes, m’lady.’”

 

Sansa laughed. “What are you going to do?”

 

Arya was quiet for a moment but then she stood tall. “I’m going to remember what Syrio taught me: fear cuts deeper than swords.” And with that she ducked down the corridor and into the great hall.

 

*

 

Sansa's aunt Lysa responded to Catelyn's inquiries earlier than expected and the date for their departure was fixed. Two days prior, however, the skies opened and sheets of rain cascaded down. With no letup in sight and reports of poor road conditions, Catelyn postponed their trip. Sansa had little enthusiasm for the excursion to begin with but the delay made it worse since it delayed their return as well.

 

The next day still found the world awash. Sansa had tired of sewing, reading, talking with Jeyne and Beth, and practicing her lessons with Joanne. She and Rickon played games in the solar under the supervision of Shaggydog while rain lashed the windows. After a while, Rickon grew restless and he and his direwolf left to go find Bran.

 

Once alone, Sansa pulled a chair in front of the window and rested her chin on her crossed forearms on the sill. The dreariness outside felt resident in her bones. She traced a fingertip along the rough granite of the windowsill while she wondered if it was raining wherever Sandor was. She didn't like to think of him being cold and wet. Lonely thoughts drifted in and out of her mind. So absorbed was she that she started when her mother entered the room and stiff-armed a letter at her.

 

At first Sansa just frowned at it, confused, but then realization and, more, hope, lit within her. She tore through the unstamped seal. The missive was characterized by blocky letters and spattered ink. Her eyes fell to the bottom, her heart skipping a beat when she saw the name there.

 

"Did you ask him to write you?"

 

"No, and I've regretted it every moment until this one."

 

Her mother's eyes darted away in impatience but she otherwise limited her response to a blown-out breath. Sansa barely noticed, so quickly were her eyes moving over his words.

 

_Lady Sansa, I have asked your father's permission to write you. If he ever gives it, you'll get this when he sends word to your lady mother. We make for Riverrun as fast as the pissing and moaning of the green boys stumbling behind us allow. Stranger does not like the slow pace any better than I do so I let him canter up and down the line. Your father does not like this so we only do it two or three times a day. Our wine is rationed but the food is not bad yet. Your father just said I may write you so I have. Sandor Clegane_

  
A watery smile spread across Sansa's face. "You’ve heard from Father . . .," she said, stalling to gather herself.

 

"I have."

 

"Is he well?"

  
"He was when he wrote his letter."

 

Sansa nodded. She wanted to be alone to read Sandor's letter over and over. Her mind was already composing a response. It was as though spring had arrived after a long winter and happiness bloomed and surged inside her, popping up and spreading in waves like a cascade of flowers. Her joy was dampened by the stern eye of her mother. "Father gave his permission for Sandor to write me," Sansa said defensively, holding the letter against her chest.

 

Her mother shook her head in annoyance. “I surmised as much, since that,” she nodded towards Sansa’s letter, “was included in your father’s letter to me.”

 

Sansa didn’t respond.

 

After looking at each other for a moment, Catelyn turned to leave, muttering something that sounded like, "By the Father, Ned," before she reached the door.

 

*

 

Sansa gave her mother a few moments to exit the hall and then bolted to her room. She sat at her dressing table, paper at the ready, her mind overflowing with things she wanted to say but yet she hesitated. Sandor’s note had been short and plain. Not much in the way of news, no endearments, and certainly no intimation as to the relationship he and Sansa shared. _Of course not. He probably assumed Mother would read it._ The seal hadn’t been broken, though. Sansa knew her mother tolerated Sandor, so long as he protected Sansa without any thought of favor or hope for reward, so maybe it wasn’t so strange that he’d given a brief update on their progress and nothing else.

 

Sansa tapped her quill against her lip. How to convey more than mere words?

 

 _Dearest Sandor._ No, she scratched that out. _Clegane._ No. Too harsh. _My lord Sandor._ Sansa considered that. It would do.

 

_My lord Sandor, I was greatly pleased to receive your kind note, and pleased further still to learn that you, my father, and the others are proceeding in health._

 

There, no one could object to that.

 

_I hope you have been spared the heavy rains we have been experiencing here at Winterfell for the past few days._

 

Sansa stopped. She wondered if Sandor was receiving a lord’s accommodation on the road. When she had traveled south to King’s Landing, she’d hardly noticed any rain. At the first drop, she’d been whisked inside the comfort of a thick canvas tent.

 

_It seems we are to be traveling at the same time, though in different directions. My mother has invited me to accompany her to the Vale. But for the rain, we would already be on our way. Isn’t it funny that I am going to meet relations for the first time who you knew for years? My mother assures me that I will enjoy the company of my cousin Lord Robert very much._

 

Sansa tapped her lip with her quill again. Should she mention she was not with child? Since there was nothing to alarm him with, she decided not to mention it. Deep down, though, she hoped he’d ask.

 

_I will pray to the old gods and the new for your health and safety. Sansa Stark_

_PS - I have mended the tunics you left behind. I hope you don’t mind._

_PPS - Please scratch Stranger’s ears for me._

 

Sansa read over her words, satisfied with what she’d written. She took out a fresh sheet of paper to write her letter again, this time without the altered greeting. She copied her words carefully though Septa Mordane had ever praised her penmanship. Her letters were clear and round without being childish and her flourishes were feminine without being artificial. When she was done, she took out another sheet and wrote a brief note to her father.

 

_Dear Father, I was happily surprised to receive a note from Sandor today. He mentioned you gave your permission for him to write me. A more generous father never lived! I am relieved to know you are both in good health and I will pray for your continued well-being. We all miss you here, Rickon perhaps most of all, and look forward to your safe return. Thank you again, Father. You are kindness itself. Love, Sansa_

 

Sansa sealed the scroll to her father and enclosed it in the scroll to Sandor. Then she hastily made her way to find a raven. As the black bird beat its wings against the wind, Sansa wondered if she would hear back from either Sandor or her father. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather slid down her spine.

 

*

 

A few days later the weather cleared and Sansa was astonished when Maester Luwin brought two scrolls to her. With sadness, she realized her father and his men must still be relatively close to Winterfell if she was hearing from them so soon. She opened the letter from her father first, waiting to savor Sandor’s. Ned’s small, tight script covered only half the paper.

 

_Dear Sansa, I am glad you are well. Your mother has expressed her disapproval of my decision to let Clegane write to you but I know that you will not take advantage of the trust I am bestowing upon you. I gave Clegane my permission because warriors must remember why they fight. You are his only true friend, I believe, and a man who feels he’s alone in the world, without a purpose, is apt to turn dangerous and unreliable. Most soldiers want gold and riches or titles. Less ambitious ones want to besot themselves with wine. Clegane asked only to write a letter. I expect you both to be discreet. He has yet to prove his loyalty to our house but if a letter from you will ease whatever causes his anger to boil, then so be it. It is preferable to his causing trouble with the other soldiers. It grows late so I will only add that you are to exercise every caution as you travel with your mother. Heed her word. You remain in my prayers. Love, Father_

  
Sansa blinked away the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. For a moment she just looked at her father’s letter and let herself miss him terribly. Her father was normally a reserved man and she had not expected even this small amount of sentiment from him. With more control than she’d originally thought possible, she broke the seal on Sandor’s letter. The squared-off letters of the first paragraph seemed to vibrate with anger.

 

_Lady Sansa, The Vale? You may as well have come on campaign with us if you have such a craving for danger. You would be far safer remaining at Winterfell. ~~Your mother~~ [the rest of the line was heavily blotted out]. We’ve heard that Stannis has attempted to draw the mountain clans to his cause. If true, then who do you think will be left? Men angry at being passed over by Stannis or bloodthirsty scavengers, that's who. If I was serving anyone but your father, Stranger and I would be on the Kingsroad within the hour. Invited you. Bloody, gods damned, senseless foolishness. Despite your father's pretty words, the men left at Winterfell were left for a reason. Whatever guard your mother has cobbled together from the scraps is next to useless, mark my words. And she thought  I was a danger to you. Piss on that. Do you remember what I taught you? Practice before you go. Spar with that sister of yours and pack what I gave you. Remember, surprise is your best weapon so use it carefully. And write to me often during your trip ~~so I know you’re not~~ so I know you’re safe._

 

The paragraphs were separated by a smear of wine. The writing was just a shade wobblier and Sansa suspected some time had passed before Sandor had continued writing.

  
_You don’t have to mend my tunics, though I thank you for taking the trouble. I have scratched Stranger’s ears for you. Fucking horse is luckier than I am. ~~Lady Sansa~~_

_We'll be on the road before first light. Plenty of ground to cover now that the weather has cleared. Be well, Lady Sansa. Sandor Clegane_

 

Just as Sansa was beginning to wonder what Sandor was going to say before he’d scratched out her name, there was a knock on her door. "Come in," she called, rolling up Sandor's letter tightly.

 

Arya walked in and shut the door, her brow wrinkled. "Did you know Clegane wrote me?"

 

"What? Let me see it!" Sansa hurried toward her sister and took the offered scroll.

 

_She-wolf, You know I taught your sister how to defend herself with a dagger. I want you to practice with her before she leaves. If you do, I will teach you properly when I return, like you asked. If you don't have a blunted dagger, ask that smith of yours to make one for you._

 

It was unsigned.

 

Surprise was shunted aside by a lump in Sansa’s throat and tears in her eyes. She knew Sandor must be genuinely afraid for her safety if he was willing to enlist Arya.

 

Arya rolled her eyes. "There’s nothing to cry about."

 

"Will you? Practice with me, I mean?"

 

"Sure, if you'll teach me some of what he taught you."

 

"I will."

 

Arya grinned.

 

They started that night. Sansa was surprised by how much she remembered since the lessons Sandor had given her in King's Landing felt like they’d taken place ages ago. Even more surprising was how quickly Arya learned everything. Sansa was soon winded but Arya spun, ducked, and jabbed tirelessly.

 

The next night, as Sansa was walking to their designated meeting place, Arya leapt out of the shadows, screeching wildly. Whip-fast, Sansa had the point of her dagger against Arya's throat.

 

"Arya! What are you _doing_? I almost _hurt_ you!" Sansa pressed a hand against her chest, her heart feeling as though it would burst through her ribs.

 

"It's good practice! And you did well!"

 

Stupid as she thought her sister's actions were, Sansa couldn't help but be a little pleased at how instinctively she'd reacted. She and Arya spent the evening going over the defensive moves Sandor had taught Sansa with Arya supplementing them with offensive steps from Syrio Forel's water-dancing lessons. It wasn't long before the two sisters were laughing uncontrollably, creating fantastic scenarios in which they vanquished everyone from Tywin Lannister to companies of sellswords to hoards of dragon-mounted Joffreys. Sansa's ribs hurt from laughing just as much as from fending off her sister's attacks. Even if the reason for the practice was sobering, sparring with her sister was fun. Sansa could see why Arya was always in the yard, even if it was exhausting work.

 

*

 

Arya took Clegane's request to heart and spent the next two days pouncing at Sansa from the corners, dashing out from behind curtains, and vaulting over banisters. Sansa could hardly move through the castle without her eyes darting everywhere, her nerves on edge, waiting for the inevitable attack.

 

The one time Sansa had tried to beat Arya at her own game by bursting into the pantry screaming like a wildling, she'd startled poor Rikard nearly to death. With a hand at his throat and his eyes fit to bulge out of their sockets, Sansa held her dagger behind her back and apologized, claiming she was playing a game with Rickon. As the steward moved away and Sansa's face began to flame from embarrassment, Arya's hysterical laughter could be heard from the other side of a large cupboard. Sansa chased her up the stairs leading to the kitchens but the two could hardly stand straight they were laughing so hard.

 

The only place Sansa felt reasonably safe was Lady Catelyn's small sept. Sansa went there after the evening meal to pray for Sandor and her father. The flickering of the candles was soothing and it wasn't long before Sansa's mother came inside. Catelyn smiled at her daughter. Sansa waited patiently while her mother murmured her devotions. When she was done, the two sat companionably on one of the few benches.

 

"The roads have cleared," Catelyn said quietly.

 

Sansa's chest tightened. "You'll want to leave soon then."

 

"Yes. The morning after next. The sooner I speak with my sister, the better."

  



	31. Chapter 31

Sansa, Lady Catelyn, and a small company of guards led by Ser Rodrik Cassel left Winterfell without fanfare. Sansa tried to sit properly but her posture kept slipping. The last time she'd spent any substantial amount of time in the saddle, she'd spent it leaning against Sandor. The curving of her spine was an uncomfortable reminder of his absence. Sansa sighed and looked back only once as the granite walls of Winterfell shrunk in the distance. She wished Sandor's shoulder was partially blocking her view.

 

The previous night, just before she'd gone to bed, Sansa answered Sandor's last letter.

 

_Dear Lord Sandor, I followed your kindly offered advice and have packed accordingly. Arya was only too happy to comply with your request as well and spent the past several days ambushing me all over the castle. I never before realized how tiring it is to maintain a constant level of vigilance and have a renewed appreciation for your protection after we left King's Landing._

_My lady mother and I leave tomorrow and I will take your words and lessons with me. In truth, I am not looking forward to our journey. I am hopeful that our time spent in the Vale will be enjoyable, and productive for my mother, but I would much rather remain at home._

_I hope you and the rest of my father's men are making swift progress. My mother has told me a little of what my father has reported to her but I sense that things are much worse in the Riverlands than she lets on. I do not mean to accuse your brother. Rather, I fear for your safety and the safety of the people living there - my family in particular - though I know your presence will provide them much-needed relief._

_I will write you as often as I am able and I hope you will do the same._

She hesitated but then dashed off an additional line.

 

_I miss you. Sansa._

 

Sansa watched as the raven carried off her letter and hoped she would hear from Sandor soon, though she had no reason to expect it, given the long journey upon which she was about to embark. She and her mother were to sail out of White Harbor, travel around the Fingers, make port at Saltpans, and then travel the high road beyond the Bloody Gate. It was indirect but Ned did not want his wife on the kingsroad, and certainly not near Riverrun and within the reach of Gregor Clegane.

 

*

 

The first few days of their trip were agony. Sansa's muscles ached, she wished herself back home every minute, and her boredom was absolute. Traveling with her mother was quite different than doing so with Sandor and her father. Conversation with the men protecting them was polite but the variances of rank were never forgotten. One difference that Sansa enjoyed, especially since they were merely traveling and not fleeing amidst accusations of treason and desertion, was the ability to stop at inns and bathe frequently. They and the men would share meals together but, after several days, there was not much new to say to one another and Sansa began to fill her evenings with sewing.

"Are you making a shawl?" her mother asked one night as she did her own stitching.

"A dress," Sansa answered. "I found some blue fabric I like very much but there's not enough for a whole gown." Having given up hope of mending Sandor's torn blue tunic, she'd cut it to pattern and had stashed the pieces in her bag with another of Sandor's garments. Sansa held out the wide strip of gray wool she was stitching. "I thought I would use this for the remainder of the skirt and embroider some blue flowers on it so it matched the top."

Catelyn considered that and then nodded. "That will look very pretty on you."

Sansa was pleased. She intended to wear the gown for Sandor's return and working on it settled her nerves in a way nothing else could have done.

 

*

 

The sea air in White Harbor buffeted their skirts against their legs as Sansa and her mother took a walk after their evening meal. “I hope this wind carries us to Saltpans quickly,” Sansa commented as she stopped to lean against the seawall. The water was somewhat choppy but exhibited none of the stomach-heaving swells that had made her ill on her last voyage. The sky was depressingly raven-less.

 

"As do I,” answered her mother, looking at the water without apparent concern. “Do you know why I had you come with me?" Catelyn added a few moments later.

 

Sansa groaned inside. She and her mother had avoided any controversial topics all this time and Sansa was not eager to enter into a conversation that was likely to leave them both displeased. "To keep me from running off like Jeyne did," she answered, not quite succeeding at keeping her words free of resentment.

 

If Catelyn picked up on her tone, she ignored it. "I asked you to accompany me because it's important that you learn to be of service to your husband. You will no doubt marry a great man and you may one day be called upon to negotiate on his behalf as I am doing now for your father. I want you to pay attention when I speak with my sister."

 

"How could she refuse you? She's your sister!" Sansa could not imagine having to negotiate with Arya over anything important and being denied. Not that she could imagine Arya as a great lady, or a married one, for that matter.

 

"What has Lysa done so far?"

 

"Nothing," Sansa answered without thinking.

 

"Exactly. She has done nothing. She has not committed her men to either side, she has not offered her supplies, she has not even attempted to _sell_ her supplies. She has remained firmly out of it. Why do you think that is?"

 

Sansa stood up straighter. This was something Sandor would know right away but Sansa had never met her aunt. It was hard to know what Lysa Arryn’s motivations were. "Because whoever sits the Iron Throne doesn’t affect her much? Because no one has asked for her involvement?" Sansa suggested.

 

Catelyn nodded. "War won't touch her in the Vale but she can't be a region unto herself. Jon Arryn understood the value of having connections but my sister is fearful, especially when it comes to her son. Her family is more than her son, though, and she should show her support. Our father, brother, and uncle are under siege and she does _nothing_! She should be ashamed of herself." Catelyn stopped talking, seeming to realize that she was getting carried away.

 

Sansa thought. "So you'll emphasize her duty to her family, even though it's Father who asked you to convince her to support Lord Stannis’s cause?"

 

"Yes. I have not heard from my father or Edmure so I don't know if they've tried to contact Lysa. They shouldn't have to ask, though."

 

"No, they shouldn't." Sansa did not believe any of her family would hesitate to come to her aid if her home was surrounded by enemies. "How will you approach her? It's not unreasonable that she should be afraid for her son."

 

Catelyn nodded as she pushed back tendrils of hair caught by the wind. "We'll just visit the first few days. Rushing Lysa will only make her stubborn. Once we're reacquainted, I'll confide in her my deep worry that Riverrun may fall to the Lannisters' siege. That won't be hard." A shadow passed over her face. "Then I'll do my best to convince her that she needn't leave Robert's side but sending men and supplies to augment Ned’s will help subdue the Lannisters’ forces as well as hearten our father and brother."

 

"But what about the rest of the war? Father was going to support Lord Stannis's claim to the throne before he was diverted to Riverrun."

 

Her mother sighed. "I'm hoping if I can get my sister to commit to one, she'll be less afraid of committing to the other."

 

"She doesn't support Stannis's claim?"

 

"She doesn't trust the Lannisters, so that will help. She accused them, Queen Cersei in particular, of murdering her husband. Sometimes I think she's gone mad."

 

"What if she was right about that?"

 

"All the more reason to support Stannis."

 

Sansa didn't know what had happened to Lord Jon Arryn or why the Lannisters would want to kill the Hand of the King but she didn't doubt that they were capable of such a thing.

 

"Lord Robert is growing up, too,” her mother continued. “I know Lysa would never consent to him being sent to war but what will become of a lord with no friends, no allies, no political experience?"

 

"How can I help?" Sansa didn't have much enthusiasm for cajoling her aunt into doing something that made her uncomfortable but she knew learning diplomacy could be useful and, besides, what else was she going to do?

 

"Be pleasant. Talk with her. Admire Robert. Let her enjoy your company and enjoy hers if you can. As soon as she feels she’s being pressured, or that her choices for her son are being criticized, Lysa will withdraw, so leave the negotiating to me."

 

“Do you think you’ll be successful?”

 

Catelyn took a deep breath. “I will try my very hardest. If I can convince Lysa that this is something she wants, that it will benefit Lord Robert, then she may relent.”

 

“And if not?”

 

“Then my regard for my sister will fall lower than I ever believed possible. It’s as though she’s forgotten Family, Duty, Honor. She shelters behind the Eyrie’s walls but she would not be Lady of the Vale if not for our father.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to say or what to make of her aunt’s behavior. It certainly didn’t increase her desire to reach their destination, though.

 

Another gust of wind nearly blew Sansa’s hood off and Catelyn took her arm, steering her back toward the inn.

 

*

 

To Sansa’s relief, the sea was calm and their voyage proceeded uneventfully. Catelyn seemed at home on the water and relaxed in a way Sansa rarely saw her.

 

“What is Aunt Lysa like?” Sansa asked as they stood at the rail one morning and watched a school of large fish dart by just under the water’s surface. She’d been thinking over her aunt’s actions, or lack thereof, and wondered what kind of woman she was.

 

Her mother pulled in the corner of her mouth. “She is . . . much changed.”

 

“How so?”

 

“She was a dreamy, impressionable young girl. Her head was filled with romantic notions of her future.”

 

Sansa’s cheeks grew a little warm. This description matched the Sansa of just over a year ago a little too closely for comfort.

 

“Lysa all but fell into a swoon when my father betrothed me to Brandon Stark.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise. Her mother and father rarely talked about the past. Only her Aunt Lyanna was mentioned with any frequency. “Why?”

 

“Well, Brandon was brash and bold, wasn’t he? He was heir to the North, handsome, tall, brave. He did as he liked, was outspoken in his beliefs and unfettered by fear, but he was loyal to his family as well.”

 

“He sounds like Arya.”

 

“May the gods save her,” Catelyn replied with a look to the sky.

 

“Was Aunt Lysa the same?”

 

“No, but she thought such a husband would make life exciting.”

 

“Did you feel that way as well?”

 

“Brandon was a suitable match.”

 

“Surely you anticipated the pairing, too,” Sansa prodded, disappointed by her mother’s dispassionate response.

 

“Brandon had a wild streak. I mourned his death, of course, but your father’s demeanor ultimately suited me better.”

 

“Was Aunt Lysa excited to marry Lord Arryn?”

 

“No. It was around that time that she began to change. Our father had a difficult time arranging a betrothal for her. It was . . . unexpected - to me as well as to her, I imagine.” With a slight shake of her head, she added, “Would you believe her hand was offered to Jaime Lannister at one point?”

 

Sansa turned toward her mother, incredulous. “No!”

 

“Oh yes, but he joined the Kingsguard and that put an end to that.”

 

“Ser Jaime certainly would have answered her idea of exciting. Aunt Lysa must have been heartbroken.”

 

Catelyn’s brows twitched together for just a second. “Yes, I suppose she might have been. She was wed to Jon Arryn soon thereafter in the same ceremony that wedded me to your father.”

 

“What was Lord Arryn like?”

 

“He was a good man and very effective in a number of battles including Robert’s Rebellion. His first two wives died before producing a living child so Jon was quite a bit older by the time he married my sister.”

 

Sansa seemed to recall Sandor saying something about Jon Arryn’s lack of teeth and bad breath. “So your sister had to marry an old man who needed an heir while you got to marry Father.”

 

“Our father made us matches with good men. Neither of us had cause for complaint.”

 

Sansa nodded but she pitied her aunt. She was not sure she could have submitted in a similar situation. “Please don’t marry me to an old man, Mother.”

 

Catelyn's eyes flicked over to hers. “Your father will do the best he can for you and you will do your duty.”

 

Since it wasn't a matter of immediate concern, Sansa let it go. She wanted to hear more about her parents' past. “Did you consider it a duty to marry Father? Was no part of you happy with Grandfather’s choice?”

 

Catelyn looked at Sansa. “I wasn’t sure about your father at first. He was very serious. It took me some time to realize a gentle heart beat beneath his solemn exterior.”

 

Sansa immediately thought of Sandor.

 

“And then he brought Jon Snow home,” her mother said bitterly.

 

“But you love Father still, despite an action he took before you really knew each other,” Sansa said carefully. She’d never been privy to her mother’s thoughts on the darkest period of her marriage before.

 

“I do. He’s a fine man, a good husband, and a caring father. I won’t pretend it was easy, especially at first. I’d just given birth to Robb and the betrayal cut deep. It took me a long time to believe that your father cared for me. And then you were born,” Catelyn said with a smile.

 

“It’s fortunate that you didn’t let an early impression turn you against him forever. It would have made for a very unhappy life.”

 

“That may be but I’m also fortunate that your father never expected me to love Jon as my own child, even if he did want Jon at Winterfell.”

 

“Was that the case with Aunt Lysa and Jon Arryn? Did they eventually grow to love one another?”

 

Catelyn sighed and looked back out at the water. “I’m afraid not. Their marriage was not a happy one.”

 

“But my aunt loves her son very much.”

 

“She smothers him, which I suppose is only natural. She lost several pregnancies and had two stillborn children.”

 

Sansa gasped. “How sad!” She had not realized the extent of her aunt’s losses.

 

“Indeed it was. She would accept no comfort from me. Instead, she grew more and more afraid that something would happen to Robert. She imagines enemies everywhere. The boy has a shaking sickness but, seeing as he’s around twelve now, it’s either well managed or not very severe. ”

 

Sansa thought about the baby she would not be having with Sandor and how she’d mourned a child she hadn’t even conceived. It seemed impossible that any child of Sandor’s could be other than hale and healthy but Sansa knew that tragedies occurred. She could not imagine losing one pregnancy, let alone several. Her heart ached for the aunt she was going to meet.

 

“I feel very sorry for Aunt Lysa. With so much disappointment and loss, it’s as though the gods refused to answer even one of her prayers. No wonder she finds it difficult to exert herself.”

 

Her mother gave her a look from under her lashes. “Lysa can be very headstrong when she wants to be.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what to make of that. They were undertaking this journey to negotiate with a disappointed, fearful woman whose anxiety for her child made her capable of letting her father, brother, and uncle bear a siege without her assistance. She sounded so different from her sister, though Sansa knew better than to assume that all sisters were alike. Still, she wondered what awaited them at the Eyrie.

 

*

 

Before embarking on the final and most dangerous leg of their journey, Sansa's mother agreed to let them stay at an inn at a crossroads for two nights. Their horses needed to rest, supplies had to be replenished, and Ser Rodrik felt it prudent to hire a few men-at-arms to supplement their guard.

 

Sansa tried to rest as much as possible but, when her mother received a raven, she grew tense all over. She scrutinized her mother's face as she read whatever news it brought.

 

"Your father is well."

 

Sansa sagged in relief. "And Sandor?"

 

“Conspicuous, as always.” She turned the paper over. “The letter isn’t dated but they reached Riverrun and were going to engage the Lannister troops the next day. Your father says Clegane asked to be moved to the vanguard.”

 

“No! Why would he do that?”

 

Catelyn raised her eyes to Sansa’s but refrained from giving an answer.

 

“Father didn’t grant his request, did he?” Sansa’s stomach was quickly twisting itself into knots.

 

“Clegane was under the Greatjon’s command . . .” Catelyn skimmed the rest of the letter. “Your father doesn’t say who was placed where, only that the men in general seemed eager to see the Cleganes fight each other.”

 

Sansa felt sick. By now the confrontation would be over and she had no way of finding out the outcome. “There was no letter for me?”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

Sansa’s turbulent feelings ricocheted all over her insides. Fear, anxiety, frustration, and helplessness pummeled at her. She couldn’t deny she was angry, too. She’d asked Sandor not to engage his brother - but he’d told her he would. The senselessness of it galled her. If he truly wanted to come back to her, why not let someone else kill the Mountain That Rides? Was vengence more important to Sandor than she was?

 

Sansa clenched her jaw to keep tears from pouring out of her eyes. She turned on her heel and was halfway across the room when her mother said, “Sansa, I will ask after Clegane when I respond to your father.”

 

“There’s no need,” Sansa said without turning around. She left her mother in the common area and went to the room they were sharing. Sansa wanted to hit something, to transfer all of the tension within her to something else. She was disturbed by the violence of her feelings but couldn’t find a suitable outlet for them. Pacing the room, she thought, _You are a lady. Act like one._ But the storm of emotions within her would not subside. She grabbed a pillow and gave it three good whacks on the bed. A few sad feathers were expelled out of a small rip in the seam and floated, orphaned, down to the floor. Feeling like a beast for her outburst, Sansa took a deep breath. Whatever had happened had happened already and she would learn the outcome sooner or later. She could certainly write her father and ask. She could write to Sandor, too, of course, but she didn’t want to. Not when she was so angry with him for putting himself at risk, for scaring her and making her worry. It would only result in a petulant, nagging letter. No, she decided she would wait.

 

Instead, she took up her stationery and wrote a letter to her sister. Their trip had been uneventful, the gods be thanked, but she included what little anecdotes she could and expressed her frustration with Sandor in the vaguest, most couched terms. Her anger burned itself out and Sansa joined her mother and the men for the evening meal if not in relative peace at least with equanimity.

 

*

 

The high road beyond the Bloody Gate was marred with outcroppings of rock that their horses had to pick their way around. It was a slow, tedious, bumpy procession. They’d heard that the mountain clans had not been seen in the area recently but Sansa tied her dagger around her waist just the same. As the wind whispered through the leaves on the trees, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end and, just as she turned, she was sure a shadow had disappeared behind a ledge on their left.

 

“Did you see that?” she asked the company in general.

 

“See what, m’lady?” one of the men responded.

 

“A man, just there. He dropped over the side of the ledge just as I turned in that direction.”

 

The men and Catelyn looked around. “Probably nothing. No one else saw anything,” answered the guardsman.

 

Sansa thought the man was likely right, that worry was making her paranoid, but her instincts still vibrated. She knew something more dangerous than Arya was close by. “I insist that it be inspected,” she said in a firm voice.

 

The men knew better than to gainsay Lady Catelyn’s daughter and so they quickly devised a plan and a few of them slunk over the rocky ledge. Several moments later there were cries of surprise, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a “Get him!” from Ser Rodrik. Sansa moved her horse closer to her mother’s, her fist tight around the dagger blade.

 

“He’s gone. Let him go,” said Ser Rodrik, appearing a moment later. “My lady has a keen eye,” he said with a smile at Sansa.

 

“Was it a clansman?” Catelyn asked.

 

“A young one, and he appears to have been alone. He took off running towards the north.”

 

More cautiously, and with many a turned head, Sansa’s party continued on. It took most of the day to reach the Gates of the Moon thanks to a recent rockslide that left the valley floor littered with rubble.

 

They were welcomed by Lord Nestor Royce and his daughter, Myranda, who smiled and seemed to take Sansa’s measure. A generous meal was laid out for them and Randa, as she insisted on being called, pressed Sansa to sit near her and another girl introduced as Mya Stone. Catelyn looked as though she were about to intercede but Lord Nestor engaged her and led her to a seat at his side.

 

Sansa sat straight in her chair and complimented the food offered to her as she took in her new companions. Randa’s brown curls swept the top of her substantial and amply displayed bosom. Mya was taller with short, dark hair and deep blue eyes. Sansa was perplexed by her mannish attire and thought, in the right dress, that Mya could be very pretty indeed. Both girls were in their early twenties and it was soon apparent that they were good friends despite Mya’s bastard status.

 

They asked about Sansa’s journey.

 

“We have been very fortunate so far,” Sansa reported, “though we look forward to reaching my aunt and cousin. Is it much farther to the Eyrie?”

 

“You can see it from here,” said Randa with a grin.

 

“It’s not so much the distance as the height,” explained Mya. “If your mother would like, I can take you up with my mules.”

 

“Surely our horses -”

 

“Surely not,” interjected Randa. “It’s very steep and windy, but we’ll make it a merry trip.”

 

“Oh! Are you joining us?” Sansa said, surprised.

 

“We are now,” Randa answered with a laugh. “Things at the Eyrie are far more exciting than things here at the moment.”

 

Sansa felt a little overwhelmed and was unsure that her mother would be pleased with such an idea. They had an important task to accomplish. Still, when the meal ended, Mya offered use of her mules and Catelyn accepted, indicating a desire to leave as early as possible. They were shown to comfortable rooms and Sansa was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

 

*

 

Shortly after dawn the next morning, their growing party left the Gates of the Moon and began the ascent to Stone, the first waycastle on the path to Eyrie. Her mother had asked Sansa to ride by her side and their own men before and behind them served as a buffer for their conversation.

 

“I hope you didn’t encourage Myranda Royce to come with us,” her mother said in an undertone.

 

“I didn’t,” Sansa said, a little miffed. “But I could hardly tell her she couldn’t.”

 

Catelyn pulled in the corner of her mouth. “I suppose not.”

 

“We’re here to help Father. I’ve not forgotten.”

 

Her mother gave her a tight smile. “Good. I’m sure Lord Robert will appreciate your company as much as I appreciate your help.”

 

When the group stopped to rest their horses and share a light meal, Sansa felt prickles scurry down her neck. She turned this way and that, looking for clansmen.

 

“See something, Lady Sansa?” one of the men asked.

 

In an instant all of them were on alert.

 

“Over there, in the trees,” Sansa said quietly. “I feel eyes . . .”

 

“By the gods, is that a shadowcat?” Ser Rodrik said, leaning forward with a squint.

 

He and a few of the men approached the trees with lit torches. Sansa watched in horror-struck awe as a black and white streak flowed through the darkness and disappeared.

 

“If your pretty face wouldn’t attract more trouble, I’d suggest your father put you on guard duty,” joked Ser Rodrik upon returning.

 

Catelyn gave him a quelling look but the rest of the group was unsettled. They quickly packed up and continued on their way.

 

Later, when the incline slowed their pace and the narrower path naturally separated them into pairs, Catelyn said, “You’ve certainly become observant, Sansa.”

 

Sansa’s thighs were getting sore from squeezing her mule in an attempt not to slide off the animal’s rump. “Sandor taught me,” she said, out of energy for pretense.

 

“Of course he did,” her mother said, each word dripping with displeasure.

 

“He wanted me to be able to protect myself in the Red Keep. He . . .” She hesitated but saw no reason not to tell her mother the truth of it. “He gave me a dagger and taught me how to use it. Defensive moves only,” she hurried to add.

 

Catelyn turned and gave her a heavy look. “Gods be good, Sansa,” she said in a low but harsh voice. “I thought he was pro _tect_ ing you.”

 

“He thought part of that should include knowing how to protect myself.”

 

Her mother was about to reply but, before she could, Sansa added, “And I agreed.”

 

One of the men called for Lady Stark then and Sansa was not sorry to have the conversation cut short.

 

*

 

The Eyrie had been swathed in clouds most of the day and never seemed to get any closer. Trundled along by her mule, her back aching, her thighs numb, her hands stiff in her gloves, Sansa felt they would never, ever arrive. The wind at the high elevation kept her awake, which was not altogether welcome given the treacherous path to be traversed at a height only falcons should know.

 

Despite her earlier frustration, Sansa’s mind drifted to Sandor in those moments when the dangerous landscape didn’t require her full attention. Until she knew the outcome of his confrontation with his brother, thinking about him only agitated her so she forced herself to concentrate on what lay ahead. Her aunt was a curious figure, by turns both heartbreakingly sympathetic and maddeningly selfish. Sansa wasn’t sure how she’d find Lord Robert. How would a young man raised by such a woman turn out? She hoped, at the least, that he would be agreeable company. She wondered how Randa and Mya would fit in and why Randa had wanted to join their party.

 

All her thoughts stopped, however, at the sight of a high, narrow saddle of rock they had to cross. Terrified, and scared of the fear reflected in her mother’s eyes, Sansa wasn’t sure she could make herself walk into the open. Even some of the men seemed hesitant. “The wind will blow us right off,” muttered one to another, who nodded gravely. Mya announced that she would cross first and, slowly but calmly, she made her way across the rock, stopping only once to negotiate the wind. "We’ll be fine," Catelyn said, taking Sansa's hand. Together they inched across, Sansa keeping her eyes on their destination rather than their path the entire time.

 

“Well done,” Mya said when they’d come to the other side. “I thought I’d have to come back and get you.” Sansa offered her a shaky smile which the taller girl returned in full.

 

The last hour was all but a vertical climb. Sansa’s arms and legs were screaming in pain, her chest hurt from the exertion and thin air, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into a hot bath for at least a fortnight. As the rest of her party scurried like rats up the side of the mountain, Sansa caught her breath and looked around. The view, it vexed her to admit, was stunning, even if their method of arrival was less than dignified.

 

“You’re in for some fun now,” Randa murmured as she walked past Sansa.

 

Little conversation was made as they approached the Eyrie’s main gate. A small retinue came out to greet them, led by a larger woman in a showy gown who was holding the hand of the boy who could only be Lord Robert Arryn. "Sister!" the woman called as they drew closer. Catelyn stepped forward to embrace her while Sansa bowed her head toward her aunt and cousin. As they greeted each other, crisp footsteps approached. A short man with a satisfied smile joined their group.

 

_What is_ he _doing here?_ Sansa wondered, her eyes darting to her mother who was covering her surprise with a stony expression.

 

"Ahh, Cat," drawled Lord Baelish. "Now that you're here, it will be like old times." He eyed Sansa. "But better."


	32. Chapter 32

Lord Baelish was so charming it almost seemed like they were guests in his castle rather than his being a guest in Lysa Arryn’s. Lady Lysa, Sansa noticed, seemed to bask in his high-handed manner rather than be insulted by it.

 

“The ladies have had a long, difficult journey,” Lord Baelish said with a shallow bow in their direction. “See that their things are brought to their rooms at once. They’ll want to freshen up before we dine.”

 

The servants looked to Lady Arryn, who smiled and nodded, before approaching.

 

“This way, please, Lady Sansa,” a young maid said quietly. Sansa followed her into the castle. Behind her, she could hear Myranda greeting Robert and turned around to see if he was more animated with her, Sansa having received only a nod in greeting. Instead, she found Lord Baelish looking over his shoulder at her. With a tip of his head and a well pleased smile, he turned and said something to the gathered party. Randa threw back her head and laughed, her bosoms rippling against the neckline of her gown like circles of water emanating from a thrown stone.

 

The maid showed Sansa to a comfortable room before departing to see to Sansa's baggage. The room was decorated in shades of light gray, sky blue, and white and the exterior walls were rounded. Large windows showed nothing but sky and distant mountains. The canopy bed was piled high with pillows and adorned with white hangings which only increased the sensation of being among the clouds. Sansa crossed the room to look at the white-capped peaks so very far away. She looked down and her stomach spun as she took in the sheer cliff-face below. She edged back and looked straight out again. The view was lovely but disconcerting and unreal. She felt unsteady for a moment.

 

A slight tap at her door was followed by her mother's voice. "Sansa?"

 

"Come in."

 

Her mother entered and looked around the room with an approving nod. "I'll come for you when it's time to eat."

 

"What is Lord Baelish doing here?"

 

Catelyn's face darkened. "Trying to woo Lysa to the Lannisters' cause, no doubt."

 

"What will you do about it?"

 

"His being here doesn't change Lysa's obligations to her family."

 

Sansa thought Lord Baelish's presence changed everything but didn't want to contradict her mother. "It's been a very long time since you've seen him," she said.

 

"Yes, it has been. I wonder if he's much changed since our youth."

 

_That depends. Was he capable of murder even then?_ Then she remembered that he had been, in a way, by dueling her uncle Brandon. Sansa didn't voice that, either, though. "It's unlikely," she said instead. "People are what they are."

 

Catelyn nodded absently. "We have some time before we need to meet the others. Try to rest."

 

Sansa was only too happy to comply. The long journey had caught up with her. She crawled over the rubble of cushions on her bed, hugged a large pillow to her, and promptly fell asleep.

 

*

 

"My lady?"

 

A voice drifted to Sansa through her dreams. Her body felt heavy, her mind sluggish. She turned deeper into the pillows and sought sleep again.

 

"My lady?" said the voice nervously.

 

Sansa remembered where she was and pushed herself upright. "Yes. I'm sorry. I fell asleep."

 

"Of course you're tired," said the young maid with a hesitant smile. "It's the gods' own work to get up here."

 

"How much time do I have?"

 

"Enough to dress and arrange your hair but not enough to bathe."

 

Sansa groaned. She wished she'd requested earlier that a tub be sent up. "I would like to have a bath this evening if it's not too much trouble."

 

"I'll see to it, my lady."

 

Sansa moved off the bed and seated herself at the dressing table. The girl immediately took a place behind her, picked up a brush, and waited for Sansa's signal to begin. Sansa looked at her in the mirror. She had a narrow face, a small, upturned nose, and light brown hair pulled back into a loose bun. Efficiency seemed to clash with hesitancy within her and Sansa sensed that the girl knew her job and wished to get on with it. With a nod she said, "What is your name?"

 

"Hannah, my lady." She began to work the brush through Sansa's tangled hair.

 

"Thank you, Hannah. How long have you served House Arryn?"

 

"Three years, my lady."

 

"I'm sure my aunt is very glad of your service. I know I shall be during my stay."

 

Hannah smiled. "I hope so, my lady."

 

"I imagine guests must be infrequent here."

 

Hannah nodded. "They are indeed, my lady."

 

"We were not expecting to meet with Lord Baelish. When did he arrive?"

 

"Several days ago, my lady."

 

"As a guest of my aunt's?"

 

Hannah looked at her directly, a spark of understanding in her eyes. "No, my lady. He arrived most unexpectedly. Lady Arryn was very happy to see him, though."

 

"Yes, she does appear happy."

 

"Are you acquainted with Lord Baelish, my lady?" she asked carefully, keeping her eyes on her work.

 

"Somewhat, yes. I last saw him when I was in residence in King's Landing."

 

It was clear Hannah already knew that by the confirming nod she gave.

 

"How do you recommend I wear my hair? Is there a Skylands style that might suit me?"

 

Hannah's lips pursed only for a moment. "Lady Arryn . . . I think the style you had was most becoming."

 

"Lady Arryn what?"

 

Hannah met her eyes in the mirror. "Lady Arryn does not appreciate vanity in other ladies."

 

Sansa wasn't quite sure of her meaning. Adopting a local style hardly seemed vain. "I see."

 

Hannah looked relieved.

 

"But, in general, what is the style?"

 

"Braided and worn up. That is how Lady Arryn prefers her hair."

 

Sansa doubted that her aunt alone set the style but didn't argue. She instructed Hannah to brush her hair out and pin it up just above her ears with beaded combs. As Hannah did so, Sansa asked, "Will you be my maid for the length of my stay?"

 

"I believe so, my lady."

 

Sansa smiled. "That pleases me."

 

Hannah smiled back and, if Sansa judged correctly, looked gratified.

 

"I don't know how long my lady mother and I are to be here. I expect I shall receive letters from my father and sister. One of my brothers may write me as well. May I rely upon you to bring me any letters I receive directly? I miss my family very much."

 

"Of course, my lady."

 

"Thank you."

 

Hannah finished Sansa's hair and helped her into one of the better gowns she'd packed. As the maid made the necessary adjustments, Sansa said, "What can you tell me of my cousin? He was very quiet during our introduction."

 

"Lord Robert is a fine young man and will rule the Vale with intelligence and dignity."

 

Sansa dismissed every single word of that and decided that Hannah had been questioned enough.

 

Once her laces were tightened, Sansa looked at herself in the mirror. Her gown was a sapphire blue. The wide neckline showed off Sansa's collarbones and was hung with small teardrop-shaped beads. Sansa thought she looked well enough and hoped her aunt wouldn't find her vain in any way.

 

Just then her mother rapped on the door and called for her. Sansa smoothed her skirt and bid Hannah a good evening.

 

"I'll have the bath ready upon your return, my lady."

 

"That would be wonderful."

 

*

 

Sansa and Catelyn were escorted not to the main dining hall but to Lady Lysa's solar where they found she and Lord Robert in company with Petyr Baelish.

 

"Ah, Cat. Lady Sansa," Lord Baelish said, standing at their arrival. "Join us."

 

Lysa was at the head of the table, Lord Baelish to her right. Catelyn was seated to Lysa's left with Sansa at her side. Across from Sansa and next to Lord Baelish was Robert, who was pouting at his plate.

 

"I trust your rooms are acceptable," Lysa said.

 

Catelyn confirmed hers was and Sansa said, "It's lovely and the view is breathtaking." She relaxed just slightly when her aunt seemed pleased with her comment.

 

"You must tell us all about your journey," Lord Baelish said, nodding to a servant to fill his wineglass.

 

As her mother began to recount their travels, Sansa remembered her instructions and looked across at Lord Robert. He was a plain-looking boy with watery eyes and dark hair. "Lord Robert," she said, wondering how best to engage him, "you and I have something in common. We both used to live in King's Landing. I imagine life is quite different here."

 

"I didn't like the city," he said with a sour look. He leaned back to allow a servant to dish meat and potatoes onto his plate and looked disgruntled to have to allow that much accommodation. Rather than withdrawing, the servant stood at the side of the room, gripping the serving tray.

 

Sansa's own plate, and everyone else's, contained quail, stewed carrots studded with pearl onions, and wilted greens. _Maybe his shaking sickness requires a special diet . . ._ "Life in the city _can_ be hectic. I've found I like a quieter environment."

 

"It's quiet here." He barely turned his head toward the servant and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The servant bowed and all but fled.

 

"It's beautiful here as well," Sansa said before taking a bite of the quail. The skin was charred but the flesh was rich and moist. "I wonder if you might show me around tomorrow."

 

"I'd have to ask Mother."

 

With that, a flick of Lady Lysa's hand halted conversation. "What was that, my Sweetrobin? Is anything amiss?"

 

"Lady Sansa wants to look around the castle."

 

Sansa stopped her fork on its path to her mouth. Robert made it sound like she wanted to rummage through their drawers. "You have such a lovely home. I'm sure the grounds, too, -"

 

"Robert may give you a tour. We have many valuable works of art here. A walk of the grounds would be too taxing. That will have to wait for another day."

 

"That is very generous, Aunt Lysa. I know my cousin will be a most knowledgeable guide."

 

Lysa favored her with a tip of the head.

 

"I would enjoy a tour myself," Lord Baelish said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "Perhaps I'll join you."

 

Lysa reached for a flagon with which to top off Lord Baelish's glass. "Petyr," she laughed, "you already know your way around."

 

"But a tour from the future Warden of the East is not an event to be missed if one can take advantage of it."

 

"Oh no," Lysa said, "you promised to tell me more of what you're doing in the capital."

 

"I would like to hear what's going on in the capital as well," said Catelyn.

 

"Surely Lord Stark is there already and writing you every night," Lord Baelish said.

 

"You know he's not."

 

"Ah yes. Riverrun. Nasty business. Gregor Clegane is a nightmare. I was advising Lysa to stay well clear of that mess and, in her intelligence, she's agreed with me."

 

"It wouldn't be a mess with Lysa's assistance." Catelyn turned toward her sister. "Our family is in great need. With additional men and supplies, Ned could more quickly end the siege. Otherwise it might drag on for -"

 

Lysa put down her wineglass with a thud. "Conversation such as this is like to give Robert indigestion."

 

Catelyn's brow contracted as her eyes slid to the young lord. He was chewing his potatoes indifferently.

 

Before the silence could grow much larger, Sansa said to Robert, "Do you enjoy reading, my lord?"

 

"Yesh," he said through a mouthful of food.

 

Sansa was surprised. "Which stories do you prefer?"

 

"Those about the Winged Knight."

 

Sansa spent the remainder of the meal forcing conversation upon her young cousin while trying to monitor the discourse at the head of the table. Catelyn tried to introduce neutral topics of conversation but Lord Baelish's jokes distracted and delighted Lysa at every turn. Her mother's frustration was palpable. Sansa wondered if she should interject but a look from Catelyn made her turn her attention back to Lord Robert.

 

*

 

Steam was rising from the tub as the last bucketful of water was dumped into it. "I am most grateful," Sansa said, weary from the strange meal she'd endured.

 

Hannah helped her undress and she slid into the water, laid her head back against the rim, and closed her eyes with a sigh.

 

"My lady?"

 

"Yes?" Sansa forced her eyes open.

 

"You've had a letter."

 

Sansa turned toward her so quickly the water nearly sloshed over the edge of the tub. "So soon!"

 

Hannah handed her a scroll, nodded at Sansa's refusal for any additional service, and departed.

 

Alone at last, Sansa ripped open the scroll and smiled when she encountered Sandor's blocky print.

 

_Dear Lady Sansa,_

 

_ I miss you, too, even if your letters are like to earn me a knife in the back. I have not told anyone that you write to me yet everyone seems to know. Your father asked me not to 'flaunt our correspondence.' I said to him, "Do I look like a man who  _ flaunts _ anything?" He actually laughed and said he supposed not. I might as well tell you that I asked to be put in the vanguard for our initial attack against Gregor. The Greatjon refused. Told me I'd follow orders and that I'd take my place in the rearguard and like it. Your father was there so I walked away but all three of us know Gregor's mine by rights. Later, your father asked me to share his fire and started in about the sin of kinslaying. He's worse than a septon when he wants to be. I asked him what he knew about it. He said only that I had a choice. Neither of us had a choice. Not me, not Alynor. I didn't tell him that, though. You understand and that's enough. _

_Still, I've continued to share his fire these past few nights. Once the plans are made for the next day and the others disappear to their women or their dice, your father and I remain. He doesn't expect to be entertained with constant conversation, thank the gods, and he doesn't seem to mind that I'm there. Others mind but bugger them. We'll ask each other questions now and again, things about the past, never about this campaign, but he's mainly quiet and watches the logs burn. I think he'd like nothing more than to tell Stannis to bugger off and return to Winterfell. I'll be the first to follow that order, should he give it._

 

_Siege work is dull work, little bird. We've only gotten into a few skirmishes. Diplomacy makes the men restless and the wine is still rationed. A dry throat makes for an itchy sword arm. The Greatjon is the only man here who could give me a proper fight but he won't. Not yet. He doesn't like me so sooner or later he'll draw. Until then I'll just bash and dent the young fools who want to try me. No shortage of them. This siege is keeping them alive but they don't know it. They'd better pray to their gods that Stannis's army is made of experienced fighters. You've done well to keep up your practice. Your sister has all the makings of a blood-hungry fiend but I'd put my dragons on you. Some other things, too. Damn me, it grows late. Or early. I've seen enough of Riverrun's walls to last me a lifetime. Another letter from you would spare me from having to look at them._

 

_ I already said it but it's more true now than when I started writing this so I'll say it again. I miss you. Sandor _

 

Sansa only realized she was grinning when her cheeks began to ache. To hear from him after so long a silence was just the balm her worried mind needed. His being marooned in the rearguard pleased her just as much as it seemed to chafe him. She read his letter over and over, warmed by his words as her bath water cooled around her.

 

*

 

The next afternoon, Sansa met Robert for a tour of the castle. Some delay kept him from meeting her in the morning so Sansa had passed the time by embroidering the dress she was making. When she was summoned to meet him, the first place he took her was the throne room.

 

"And this is the Moon Door!" he exclaimed.

 

Sansa looked at the weirwood door and its heavy bronze bars. "Where does it go?"

 

"Straight down," Robert said with a grin. "I'd show you but Mother wouldn't like me to open it."

 

"I should say not. That sounds terrifying."

 

"Oh, it is. Men have wept when we've made them fly."

 

"Surely there's not much occasion for that." Sansa wondered at his enthusiasm.

 

"No," he frowned.

 

Robert ambled from room to room. "This is the dining hall. This is the library. These are the kitchens."

 

Before boredom could completely overtake her, Sansa said, "My father was a ward here. Do you know which room was his?"

 

Robert looked confused. "Why would I know that? He stayed in one of the guest rooms, I suppose, or one of the empty rooms in the family wing. My mother told me that he and King Robert once broke a very valuable table. _I_ have never done that."

 

"Of course not."

 

After that, the tour became more of a lecture. Her father's juvenile misdeeds were well known to Robert and it occurred to Sansa that Lord Robert was probably the first noble child to live within these walls since her father and Robert Baratheon had been in Jon Arryn's care. No wonder the place felt desiccated. Up until recently, Winterfell had rung with the shouts of her siblings and evidence of children had been everywhere, from blunted swords in the yard to toys left by the hearth to special treats baking in the kitchens. By comparison, the Eyrie was under a permanent hush.

 

After walking along a gallery displaying the Arryns' distinguished Andal descendants, Sansa suggested they get some air.

 

"Well, alright, but only for a minute. Mother says too much air isn't good for me."

 

He led her out the rear of the castle into a pretty little courtyard. "The gardens are through that gate. I can show them to you another time."

 

"Lord Robert! Lady Sansa!" Myranda Royce heralded them from the entrance to the gardens. "I hope I've caught you at the beginning of your walk and not the end."

 

"I was just going in," Robert said petulantly.

 

"Of course you must rest, my lord. But you wouldn't mind if I took a stroll with Lady Sansa, would you?"

 

Lord Robert worked through that. "I suppose that would be fine but _I_ want to show her the roses."

 

Randa nodded as though this was entirely expected. "I'll just walk her down the garden path a ways."

 

Robert departed and Randa took Sansa's arm and started into the garden. Closest to the castle were the kitchen gardens. Vegetables and herbs were contained in tidy square boxes, the soil being too rocky for much to grow in the native soil alone. Sansa stopped to peer at a plant she'd never seen before. "What is that?" she asked her companion.

 

"Something to eat, I imagine," Randa replied without looking.

 

They walked farther on. A hedgerow separated the kitchen gardens from the formal ones. Sansa gasped when they passed through an arch in the hedge and entered the gardens proper. "These are lovely!" The gardens extended down a slope, allowing her eye to cascade along the lines of shrubs and flowers, to take in the waves of colors hemmed in by carefully pruned greenery. Benches were placed here and there though no one was occupying them. An arch in the distance drew her eye. "What's through there?"

 

"A private garden with a small pool."

 

"A hot spring?"

 

Randa looked at her askance. "No, a pool for water plants. Never mind that, though. How are you enjoying the Eyrie so far? Has it been worth the trip?"

 

"Well, it's only been one day, not even, and I'm just getting to know my aunt and cousin -"

 

"But you already know Lord Baelish."

 

"A little but we weren't expecting him here."

 

"Weren't you?"

 

It was Sansa's turn to look skeptical. "Were you?"

 

"No but I was greatly pleased by his arrival. It can be so _boring_ here sometimes. Handsome, fashionable, rich, powerful men are few and far between."

 

"I suppose he is all of those things."

 

"Oh, you find him handsome, too?"

 

Sansa put aside his personality and forced herself to be objective. "He is not ill-favored."

 

Randa laughed. "Oh, come now. You are not blind and, pretty as you are, I'm certain you've seen your share of men. You were to be queen once, after all, and King Joffrey is said to be most handsome, whatever else he is."

 

"He is many things besides handsome."

 

Randa burst forth in laughter again. "You can speak openly with me, Lady Sansa. I won't tell your secrets. Did Lord Baelish know you were going to be here?"

 

The thought hadn't occurred to her. Sansa knew he was rumored to have an extensive spy network so she supposed it was possible that he knew of their coming, though the thought of him keeping a watch on her or her mother made her skin crawl. "I don't know. That would be a better question for him."

 

"Oh, trust me, Lady Sansa, if Lord Baelish would give me his time, I wouldn't spend it asking about you. You mustn't be offended. It's just that opportunity only comes around so often."

 

Sansa knew she was being forward but she couldn't keep from saying, "But you've only just met him."

 

"You haven't. Tell me what you know about him. We've already agreed he's handsome."

 

Sansa tread carefully. Lord Baelish was slippery. Something about him made her feel uneasy. She believed Sandor's assertion that Lord Baelish was behind a plot to murder her father so he was dangerous as well. At the very least, he was a guest of her aunt's and it would not do to speak ill of him. She was inclined to like Randa, despite her boldness, so she said, "I know, when we were in King's Landing, that he was often invited to dine with a lady and her daughters."

 

"That's unlucky. Nothing came of it?"

 

"I suppose not, though I couldn't speak to his feelings in the matter."

 

"He's never been married?"

 

_He wanted to marry my mother._ "Not that I know of."

 

"He seems quite taken with your aunt."

 

"They grew up together. He was a ward of my Grandfather Tully's at Riverrun. He's . . . an old friend."

 

"Tsk. Well don't keep him all to yourself. I was quite put out at being excluded from your little gathering last night."

 

"If he was mine to give, you would have him." Sansa bit her tongue at her unguarded comment but Randa only laughed.

 

"Let's go see Mya," she said. "The stables are just over here."

 

They found Mya tending her mules.

 

"I must admit, I was terrified of crossing that saddle of rock. I don't look forward to having to do it again," Sansa said to Mya after they'd exchanged greetings.

 

"Well _I_ must admit that I thought your knees would buckle after two steps but you proved me wrong."

 

"It's a wonder the mules don't bolt."

 

"I trust the mountain and the mules trust me."

 

"Lord Baelish wasn't unmanned by the crossing, I trust?" Randa interjected.

 

Mya rolled her eyes at Sansa. "If you wish to be sick of hearing about Lord Baelish, you need only spend five minutes in Randa's company to be satisfied."

 

"You may tell Lord Baelish that last part but the number of minutes would be up him," Randa countered.

 

Both girls laughed while Sansa blushed.

 

"I told Lady Sansa that I'd like a seat at their table if she can manage it. Maybe if my father was to ascend the mountain, Lady Arryn would make up a larger party."

 

"I'm sure it would be more lively than dining with me but I'm bound for the kitchens either way," Mya answered.

 

Sansa wondered if she was doing a wise thing when she said, "I don't know my aunt's plans but if I could be excused one night, we three could dine together."

 

Randa and Mya were enthusiastic about such a scheme and pressed her to arrange something soon. Sansa promised she would. It had been so long since she'd been in the company of girls her own age that she found she was looking forward to it as eagerly as her new friends seemed to be.

 

*

 

As it turned out, it was several days until an open evening presented itself. Sansa spent that morning with Lord Robert. He'd given her a superficial tour of the gardens, lauding the roses as the best to be found in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa agreed the roses were pretty but had seen superior blooms in Winterfell's own glass gardens as well as in the Red Keep's flowerbeds. Her lack of awe seemed to irritate the young lord.

 

"Let's play a game," he commanded. "I've had enough walking."

 

"If you like."

 

They went to the library and Robert produced a cyvasse board.

 

"Oh! I know this game!" Sansa said, warming to the idea of playing more than she had previously.

 

Robert insisted on going first and marched his pieces toward Sansa's in as straight a line as could be. Sansa picked them off effortlessly and won the game in a matter of minutes.

 

"Hey!" Robert whined. "I was supposed to win!"

 

_Then maybe you should have employed some strategy._ "Let's make it best two out of three."

 

Robert stuck his lower lip out and looked much younger than his twelve years.

 

"Three out of five?" Sansa suggested.

 

"Fine."

 

Again Robert moved his pieces thoughtlessly and again Sansa was the victor.

 

"You killed my king!"

 

"You left him in the way of my dragon."

 

Robert glared at the board. Then he glared at Sansa. He reminded her of Rickon when he was in one of his disobedient moods.

 

"Everyone loses sometimes," she said quietly.

 

" _I_ have never lost."

 

"Would you like me to show you how -"

 

" _No_. I would _not_."

 

Sansa sat motionless for a second. She wondered if she should throw this next game but her dignity wouldn't allow it. She set up the board and waited for Robert to make a move. He seemed to give his pieces more attention and his fingers hovered over a few of them before he finally selected the spearmen and moved them to a different square. Sansa could have taken them but left them in favor of advancing her trebuchet. Robert blundered on his next move and, when Sansa scooped up his piece, he huffed. He placed another piece within Sansa's reach. She thought just taking it would be too much so she said, "I see you mean to take my rabble but you've left yourself open to my elephant."

 

Robert's eyes skipped across the board, saw she was right, and snatched his piece back.

 

Sansa limited herself to removing his pieces only on every other turn. Despite her restraint, she still won and Robert was seething with frustration.

 

"You cheated!"

 

"I did not."

 

"You must have or I would have won!" He stood and swept his arm across the table, knocking the board and pieces to the floor.

 

A servant rushed in. Robert's lower jaw was quivering and he wavered between tears and anger. His hands began to tremble. "Lord Robert!"

 

Sansa got to her feet. "How can I help?"

 

Robert seemed too upset to speak.

 

"Come with me, my lord," said the servant while casting a suspicious glance at Sansa.

 

"We were only playing a game," she explained.

 

The servant took Robert by the elbow and guided him toward the door.

 

"Will he be alright?"

 

The servant looked back. "Yes, with a little time."

 

Sansa cleaned up the game and, as she was putting it away, was summoned by another servant to her aunt's solar. She was relieved to find her mother there as well.

 

"How is Lord Robert?" Sansa asked immediately.

 

Her aunt looked just slightly assuaged by her question. "It is right you should be concerned. Maester Colemon is leeching him."

 

"I am relieved to hear it."

 

"Tell me what happened."

 

"Lord Robert and I took a walk through the gardens and -"

 

"You knew he wasn't to overtire himself."

 

"Oh, I know. He told me when he was ready to return inside and we did so right away."

 

Lysa nodded.

 

"We were in the library playing a game and Lord Robert became quite upset after he lost."

 

"Was he shaking before then, Sansa?" her mother asked.

 

"No, not at all."

 

"And then?" Lysa asked.

 

"Well, he knocked the board off the table - out of anger, not his sickness - and a servant came in and led Lord Robert out."

 

"How badly was he shaking?" Catelyn wanted to know.

 

"His hands were trembling a bit." Sansa thought it better not to mention that he was nearly crying.

 

"Lysa, could it be that he was merely upset, that this wasn't an episode of illness?"

 

"Robert's health is precarious. We can't treat him too gently."

 

"Of course," her mother said while conveying a less sympathetic sentiment to Sansa with her eyes.

 

"When will Lord Robert be recovered?" Sansa asked.

 

A knock on the door brought Petyr Baelish into their midst. "I heard our young lord was taken ill."

 

Lysa fluttered a hand at him, which he took and pressed to his lips. "I worry about him so, Petyr, you know I do!"

 

"Lysa was just telling us that Lord Robert is being leeched by the maester. When is his expected recovery, sister?"

 

"He should be well again in the morning."

 

"A relief," said Petyr with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 

"Indeed," said Catelyn, Sansa nodding along in agreement.

 

"Though perhaps sweetsleep would be more effective," suggested Lord Baelish.

 

"I don't know how I shall get through the night, Petyr. You must sit with me."

 

"Ah, duty calls, my sweet lady. I have several letters to write tonight. Your company has charmed me away from my work too long. I was coming to tell you when news of Lord Robert hastened my steps."

 

"Oh Petyr," Lysa began.

 

"You forget that he is Master of Coin in addition to being King Joffrey's emissary. The commerce of the realm relies upon him," Catelyn interjected. "You and I have scarcely had a chance to catch up. Since Petyr is busy and Robert is resting, and if Sansa will excuse us, perhaps you and I could dine alone tonight."

 

Lysa pouted. "Well, I suppose. But I'll expect more of your company on the morrow," she said to Lord Baelish.

 

"And you shall have it," he promised. With a bow and a snap of his cape, he left them.

 

"I always knew he would rise high," sighed Lysa. "Father didn't believe me but thank the gods Jon did or we might never have seen him again."

 

*

 

Sansa sent word to Randa and Mya and asked Hannah to bring their meals to Sansa's room.

 

"How is Lord Robert?" Mya asked.

 

Sansa hesitated. She related the facts, leaving out anything that might embarrass her cousin.

 

"You mustn't be alarmed, Lady Sansa. Lord Robert has been like this forever," Randa said.

 

"The shaking has lessened somewhat as he's gotten older but he is rather used to having his own way," Mya added.

 

"It's a shame he should be troubled by such a condition," Sansa said, earning agreement from her companions. "And I certainly don't blame my aunt for worrying over him," she went on as Randa and Mya murmured, "Certainly not," and, "Of course she should," "but I confess to being surprised by how gingerly he must be handled."

 

The older girls exchanged knowing looks. "It's the first lesson one learns when coming to the Eyrie," Randa said. "In truth, we should post a sign about it at the Gates."

 

Sansa giggled nervously. She thought she'd done damage to her mother's cause but both girls related similar experiences with Robert as well as with Lysa. "So you don’t think my aunt will shove me through the Moon Door for upsetting him?"

 

Mya laughed. "Not for a first offense."

 

The conversation turned and Sansa reveled in their merry mood. She laughed until her stomach hurt and had one glass of wine too many, letting its warmth seep into her muscles and ease away her cares.

 

*

 

_Dear Sandor,_

_You must know how much it pleases me to hear that you are safe, bored, and often in the company of my lord father. Please don't goad the Greatjon. He's a close friend of my family's and our most loyal bannerman. I know he will come to like you, provided you keep your sword in its scabbard. In fact, please send him my affections, since he must be aware of our correspondence if everyone else is._

_I must be more guarded than ever. My lady mother and I were quite surprised to find Lord Baelish here when we arrived. My maid brought me your letter directly, as I requested, but now that I'm thinking on it, I should probably offer her a dragon, as it's unlikely that Lord Baelish has not already. I find him the same as ever. My aunt adores him and he seems quite fond of her. They are rarely apart, which frustrates my mother. I'm helping as much as I can by keeping Lord Robert occupied. He gave me a tour of the castle and was quite specific on what I mustn't do in each room but he had no answers to or interest in my questions about the castle's inhabitants, the furniture, the weather, or anything else. It's hard for me to imagine my father and King Robert running through these halls as boys. Sweetrobin has instructed me on the many ways in which they caused trouble. I look serious and nod but those tales are the best parts of our time together. Sometimes I can't believe how long we have been here already._

_There are only two girls my age at the Eyrie. My mother doesn't consider them appropriate companions for me but I enjoy their company. Myranda Royce is great fun but incautiously outspoken. She tempts me into a confidence but I am careful not to be as liberal in my speech as she is in hers. Mya Stone is pretty but bastard-born and in service to the Royces. Her mules brought us here. They are sad specimens next to Stranger but sturdy and capable. She often wears breeches and teases me for refusing to try them. This reminds me that I am in your debt for one blue tunic. Yours had a tear in it that couldn't be mended discreetly so I fashioned it into a gown. It provided enough material to make up the bodice and part of the skirt. My mother says the long length of blue makes me look even taller. The remaining two-thirds of the skirt are gray wool which I'm embroidering with large blue flowers. I will wear it for your return, which I pray is swift and safe._

_Yours, Sansa_

 

Sansa sealed the scroll and smiled. She hadn't mentioned his brown tunic, the one she kept tucked under her pillow; the one she held in her arms and breathed deeply of its scent; the one she put on over her nightgown so she could pretend to fall asleep in his embrace.

 

*

 

Sansa watched the raven carry her letter off and was making her way back inside when her mother caught up with her.

 

"How was your talk with Aunt Lysa last night?" Sansa asked.

 

Catelyn smiled triumphantly.


	33. Chapter 33

Sansa returned her mother's grin and they hurried to the privacy of Catelyn's room.

 

"Has Aunt Lysa agreed to help Father, then?" Sansa asked the instant she took a seat.

 

"She said she would give it her consideration and I believe she was sincere. I impressed upon her the benefit this would give Robert."

 

"What did you tell her?"

 

"That supporting Lord Stannis would be helpful to Robert in the long run. Stannis, if nothing else, is known to be a fair man and King Joffrey is sadistic and unpredictable. I reminded Lysa that she believed the Lannisters killed her husband and that I believe they would have killed mine. She ignored that until I reminded her Robert would be head of House Arryn one day, a man of power and influence and a target for enemies just like Ned and Jon."                                    

 

"Oh, Mother, so you believe Sandor?"

 

"It was a useful argument."

 

Sansa felt a small pang at that but kept her expression neutral. "What else?"

 

"I told her Robert needed to establish connections outside of the Vale."

 

"But the Eyrie is im _preg_ nable. Robert tells me so all the time."

 

"That's what Lysa said, too. I agreed but pointed out that, even if was difficult to traverse the Bloody Path, a siege would starve them out in no time, particularly during the winter. If they never show allegiance to others, no one will show allegiance to them should they ever need it. I told her the best place to show support was to one's family. She seemed disinclined to help Father but softened a little when it came to our uncle and brother. I asked her what Robert would do when he got older. Certainly he'd want to marry one day but an alliance with the Arryns will mean little if they won’t even help their own family."

 

"I think Father would be very proud of you, Mother," Sansa said with a smile.

 

Catelyn smiled in return. "Well, it took many repetitions but I can only hope reason will prevail where affection has failed."

 

"Her men are probably readying their armor as we speak."

 

Catelyn laughed and, for the first time in a long time, Sansa felt the tension blanketing them both disperse a bit.

 

*

 

When Sansa returned to her room, there were two scrolls waiting for her on her dressing table. She picked them up and left a silver stag in their place.

 

_Dear Sansa, Your father reminds us often that winter is coming and it will be a cold one for a man with no tunics. Will you take my cloak next?_

 

Sansa grinned. For all his gruffness, the man was a flirt, and she loved it.

 

_The siege has been broken._

 

Sansa gasped. This was wonderful news and yet a grave blow to her mother's argument. Sansa knew she had to tell her mother at once but she quickly skimmed the rest of the letter.

 

_By 'broken' I mean Gregor was called back to join Tywin Lannister and we were caught flat-footed. We're racing to King's Landing and figure we're almost half a day behind. Your father doesn't think Gregor plans to challenge Stannis on his own so we should be able to join the main army before engaging the Lannisters' forces. No time to write more, little bird. We're moving again._

_Stay away from Littlefinger._

~~_Hound_ ~~

_Yours, Sandor_

 

Sansa barely absorbed the rest of his words before dashing back to her mother's room and breaking the news about the end of the siege.

 

Her mother pressed her lips together and nodded reluctantly. "I am relieved to hear it, in truth, but let's not mention this to Lysa just yet. She'll know soon enough. I just hope she makes up her mind before then. My reasons for her supporting Lord Stannis still stand.”

 

Sansa felt that hope was tenuous at best but acceded to her mother's wishes. She returned to her room and opened the second scroll.

 

_Dear Sansa,_

_I hope you are having a better time in the Vale than I'm having here. There's hardly any point to being in the yard with everyone gone. I'm usually limited to sparring with Rickon, who begs me to let him use a real sword. Even with a blunt one he still nearly took my leg off. I'm going to make him write to you as punishment._

 

Beneath that, _RICKON_ was printed so hard into the paper, the long, stick-like letters looking like a smashed bug on the page, that Sansa had to laugh.

 

_I can't wait for you and Mother to come back. Everyone seems to think it's my job to look after him._

 

Sansa shook her head in amusement. _You couldn't wait for us to be gone!_ she thought.

 

_I think they're just afraid of Shaggydog. Jeyne is. Shaggydog passed her in the hall one day and she all but threw herself against the wall. I caught her trying to hide behind a tapestry. It was funny. She told me it wasn't but it was. She seemed put out by my laughing at her so I asked if she wanted to go riding but she said no. That was the only time I've seen her happy to go to her lessons. She and Beth spend their time together, I guess. I don't really know. They're not near the yard much. Oh, Bran wants to say hello._

 

Their brother's neat, light script related some general news from Winterfell and wished Sansa and their mother a safe journey home. Sansa sighed. Home was never so appealing as when she wasn't there. She thought, in passing, that Robert really would have benefited from a sibling. Her Aunt Lysa probably would have been comforted by a second child, too, but that was no fault of her own. Sansa read on.

 

_Anyway, I got a note from ~~Clegane~~ our mutual friend. He said he'd give me the lessons that I asked for. That was it. He didn't mention you at all, though I suppose you get your own letters._

_I asked our blacksmith to make me a helm and he refused. Refused! For all the "m'lady's" I get, you think he'd know who he was talking to. He said he wouldn't do it without Father's permission. I told him that was stupid but he said he didn't care and that it wasn't for him to waste all of Lord Stark's metal. I pointed out that Father had gotten me a master to study under in King's Landing so, since he obviously approved of my having a sword, why would he object to a helm? He knew I had him there so he heaved this great sigh and asked what kind of helm I wanted. Then he had me because I didn't know. I said I'd draw something. It took me a few days but I came up with a really good design and he laughed at it and said the amount of metal it would take to fashion it would break my neck. I punched him in the arm for that and said, if he knew so much, he could help me design it. He said he would, even though he won't make it until Father approves, which I still say is stupid but at least we're getting somewhere. I'll show you the plan when you come home. I'd draw it here but it keeps changing._

_Until then, I remain,_

_Lady Arya of House Stark_

 

Her signature was encircled by an obnoxious and un-Arya-like profusion of flowers, vines, stars, and hearts. Sansa laughed in spite of herself. _Poor Gendry._

 

Sansa looked at the scrolls in her hands. She was happy to hear from Sandor and her sister and brothers, but their letters highlighted how unsettled the entire world remained. Any one undesirable outcome could trigger the collapse of all of Sansa’s hopes. It all started with her Aunt Lysa. If she wouldn’t commit her men, Sansa's father and Sandor might be imperiled. If they were defeated, Joffrey would remain on the Iron Throne. Sansa was no longer so naive as to believe she and her family would just be left to themselves behind Winterfell’s walls. No, they’d be hunted, scattered perhaps, maybe even driven from Westeros. Sansa closed her eyes and prayed that her aunt would formally declare an alliance with her father, and soon.

 

*

 

Until Lysa decided, Sansa didn't have much to do but spend time with her cousin.

 

"Most guests aren't shown the family's private chambers but I will allow you this one time because it's where I keep my books. My book collection is the envy of the Skylands, cousin Sansa," Lord Robert said haughtily.

 

"I'm sure it is," Sansa replied, though she'd never heard of it. She climbed the stairs and hoped either the books would be interesting or the visit would be brief. She knew better than to hope for both.

 

The faint sound of a moan caught Sansa's ear. She stopped on the step and looked at her cousin's retreating back. She wondered if his shaking sickness had caused him to make the noise and, if so, if she should summon help at once.

 

Sweetrobin turned when he realized Sansa wasn't behind him. "What are you waiting for?"

 

"Are you well?"

 

"Yes." He eyed her suspiciously. "Are you?"

 

"I . . ." She didn't want to upset him by suggesting something was wrong. "I'm very well. I thought I heard something but it must have been the wind."

 

Robert narrowed his eyes. "I didn't hear anything."

 

"Then there must have been nothing to hear. You know best."

 

He nodded and continued up the steps. Sansa followed, taking her time, and she heard it again. The moan was accompanied by a low chuckle this time. A few steps higher and a rhythmic creaking joined the other noises. Sansa's face flamed red. Lord Robert passed down the hall seemingly unaware of what was taking place in his mother's chambers. Sansa tried not to make a sound as she passed by her aunt's door. She wondered briefly if she and Sandor's lovemaking was as noisy. Then her aunt purred, "Oh, Petyr," and Sansa stumbled into a halt.

 

"Come _on_ ," her cousin commanded and Sansa hurried to catch up, grabbing his arm and dragging him into his room before their presence was made known.

 

"What are you _doing_?" Robert asked, shaking off her hand.

 

"My pardons," Sansa panted, her mind spinning in confusion, disgust, and embarrassment. "There are so many stairs here. I'm afraid I'm not used to them." It was a lie, of course. Winterfell had no shortage of steps.

 

"You're not an Arryn," was the haughty reply.

 

"No, my lord." _And thank the gods for that._

 

On any other day, Sansa would have been genuinely interested in Robert's beautifully illustrated books but she was confused as to how Lord Baelish had found his way into her aunt's bed and repulsed by what she had heard. Her aunt made no secret of her feelings for him but, as far as Sansa had observed, he had engaged in nothing more than the usual diplomatic gallantries envoys usually employed. Sansa cringed as her aunt’s cries of pleasure cut through the stone wall and asked Robert to read her his favorite tales in hopes of keeping his mother’s behavior hidden from him. She would have had him read until he was hoarse but eventually the sound of a door opening made her strain her ears toward the hall.

 

"Marry me, Petyr. You were meant to be mine. We were meant to be together."

 

"All in good time, my lady. Let us celebrate our nuptials after the war is over. I could be called back to King's Landing at any time. Parting from you will be difficult enough without leaving you as my wife."

 

"Poo on the war. The siege has ended and that's all that really mattered. Let me have you again. Give me a darling child."

 

"Sweet Lysa, your impatience becomes you but you have much to decide first. No doubt soon we will have cause to celebrate."

 

"But -"

 

"Family, Duty, Honor, isn't that how it goes? Let me honor my duty and then we can discuss family."

 

Sansa rolled her eyes at his play on words but was relieved when she heard Lord Baelish's retreating step. Robert read to a distracted audience for another quarter hour before she suggested they descend.

 

*

 

Sansa could hardly bear to look at the others as they ate that evening. She had not been able to get her mother alone and the knowledge that her aunt and Lord Baelish were . . . well, it made swallowing the greasy duck they'd been served much more difficult. And how was she to tell her mother anyway? _I heard them having sex?_ How was she to relay the depths Lord Baelish had gone to secure Lysa's support for the Lannisters without also acknowledging a level of awareness to which she had no right? As important as enlightening her mother was, Sansa was utterly unwilling to risk increasing her mother's distrust and dislike of Sandor. Sansa knew her father deserved all the assistance she could provide so she had to say _something_ to her mother, and very soon before Lysa declared for the Lannisters. She pushed her food around her plate.

 

"Are you well, Lady Sansa?" Lord Baelish asked with narrowed eyes.

 

"Oh, yes, quite. I thank you."

 

"We've not had the pleasure of much conversation from you."

 

"I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere. Lord Robert was so generous as to loan me one of his books and I've been thinking about the tales. There were many I had not read before." Robert had allowed her to take a slim, tatty volume he declared was boring. Sansa had skimmed through it, trying to distract herself.

 

"Robert could teach you much," Lysa interjected.

 

Sansa glanced at her cousin who was frustrated by a tomato that he couldn't pierce with his fork. It rolled around and around his plate until he tucked his chin and balled up his fists. A servant rushed over to hold the tomato in place between two knives until Robert managed to stab it, only once impaling the back of the servant's hand.

 

"I've learned much already, Aunt Lysa."

 

"There's no better education than travel," Lord Baelish said.

 

"Yes," Catelyn interjected. "But I'm sure we'll both be happy to return home."

 

"You only say that because you've never spent time in King's Landing. Come as my guest, Cat. I could show you every delight."

 

"There are many delights to be had here," Lysa said with a pout.

 

Sansa hurried to agree. "Indeed. The views are breathtaking and . . ." There was really nothing else to say in favor of the Eyrie. "And . . . the quiet . . . is very peaceful." That was true enough.

 

Lysa nodded, pleased.

 

"The Eyrie is im _preg_ nable," added Robert.

 

"A comfort to all of your bannermen, no doubt, but there's nothing like the excitement of the city," Baelish countered. "Didn't you find it so, Lady Sansa?"

 

"The city is too exciting for my taste."

 

Petyr smiled. "Like mother, like daughter, it would appear."

 

"I hope so, Lord Baelish."

 

Lysa shifted in her seat. “Yes, at times there is a remarkable similitude.”

 

"I want more duck," Robert demanded.

 

The rush of servants broke the thread of conversation, to Sansa’s relief, and, after their retreat, her aunt described at length some decorative changes she was planning for various rooms in the castle.

 

*

 

The morning sun burned through the fog and promised a mild day after a restless, fitful night. Sansa thought it would be best to take a walk with her mother and break the distasteful news privately. She knocked on her mother’s door and was admitted. Catelyn sat at her desk looking furious.

 

"Mother, is everything alright?"

 

"Your father."

 

Sansa's hand fluttered to her throat. "He's not -"

 

"He's fine. He's just taken leave of his senses," Catelyn said bitterly.

 

Her mother's gaze bore into her and Sansa looked back blankly. "He was not injured?"

 

Catelyn took a breath. "No, he was not. Have you heard from Clegane?"

 

"Not since the siege broke."

 

Something seemed to settle in her mother. "Did you need something?"

 

"Need something? Oh. No. I thought we might take a walk together, just you and I." Sansa lowered her voice. "Aunt Lysa might enjoy not having to entertain us for a morning. It might give her time to think."

 

Her mother nearly snorted. "A walk is a wonderful idea." She rose and dropped Ned's letter into the fire. She used the poker to jab the paper beneath the coals and watched as it curled into ash. Then she gathered her cloak and led Sansa from the room.

 

Sansa headed toward the gardens but Catelyn said, "Let's go this way," and so they ambled along outside of the castle walls. The wind kicked at their skirts and Sansa felt so open to the air that she wondered how they weren't blown right off the peak. She took her mother's arm.

 

Catelyn looked at her with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

 

"Are you certain you're well?" Sansa asked. "I know this trip has been a great strain on you."

 

"You are sweet to ask. I am well but I’m looking forward to going home. As soon as I can get Lysa to make a firm commitment, we can leave."

 

Sansa bit her lip. She looked down at the rocky ground.

 

Catelyn jostled her arm. "Are you certain _you're_ well? I would have thought you'd be in a great hurry to return home."

 

"Oh, it's not that."

 

Catelyn stopped walking and stood in front of her. "Then what is it?"

 

"I . . . I heard something . . ."

 

"From Clegane? I thought you said -"

 

"No no no, not from him."

 

Her mother's brow furrowed even more. "What did you hear?"

 

Sansa hated that she was going to destroy her mother's hopes and she didn't wish to get into the finer points of what she had actually heard. "Robert took me up to his room yesterday to show me his books."

 

Her mother waited for her to go on.

 

"His room is just past Aunt Lysa's."

 

Catelyn shook her head, not seeing a connection.

 

"Well, when I walked past her door, I could hear her in there. She . . .   she was with Lord Baelish. She wants to marry him but he put her off, saying she needed to decide on something first.”

 

Her mother's face fell open in shock and then quickly contracted in anger. She glared at the ground and then looked around as though an explanation might be arriving in the wind. "I should have known," she finally said. "She's ever been infatuated with him. I don't know why I expected restraint on his part."

 

"I'm sorry. I wish I'd never heard them. I know this makes things more difficult for you. I didn't want to tell you but -"

 

"No, you should have told me. I'm glad you did."

 

"What will we do now?"

 

Catelyn took a deep breath. "I'm not sure."

 

"Ah! _Here_ you are! Good day to you, Lady Stark, Lady Sansa" called Randa as she approached around a corner of the castle yard wall. "I was looking for you, Lady Sansa, and one of the maids said you'd ventured outside the walls. It's certainly more private out here, if more windy."

 

Catelyn looked at her curiously.

 

Randa smiled in return. "Lady Sansa, it's been too long since Mya and I have seen you. Join us for lunch. You'd be most welcome, too, Lady Stark. We'll have all the cake the kitchens can muster."

 

Sansa was reluctant to leave her mother. "That's very kind but -"

 

"No, Sansa, it's alright. Go. Enjoy lunch with your friends. I thank you, Lady Myranda, but I must decline my share of the invitation."

 

Randa grinned but Sansa was sure her place was with her mother after dashing her hopes. She opened her mouth to decline as well but her mother anticipated her. "I'll see you this evening."

 

Sansa nodded, lacking any further argument.

 

Randa chattered away about nothing at all as they returned inside and until Catelyn had gone her own way. After that, Sansa was swept along to Randa's room where Mya, a variety of sandwiches, and several kinds of cake awaited.

 

*

 

Sansa’s feeble protests that she didn’t need a fourth glass of wine were quickly overridden. As her glass was filled, she pressed her fingertip into the bits of cake remaining on her plate and brought them to her lips. The cake was buttery, soft, and sweet. Sugar had been pressed on the outside and the grit of it mashing with the soft crumbs was divine. Dry wine was just the thing to wash it down. Sansa giggled. She’d been having such a good time, she couldn’t remember why she’d protested against coming in the first place.

 

“Mya’s been a dear and told you all about Mychel Redfort and I've told you all about _my_ dearly departed husband. Now it’s your turn. Surely a pretty girl like you has had suitors besides the king,” Randa said wryly.

 

“Well,” Sansa began, feeling warm and fuzzy toward her new friends, “there _is_ someone but I won’t tell you his name. My parents don’t like him.”

 

“They never do. Is he handsome?”

 

“ _I_ think so.”

 

“So no.”

 

Mya laughed.

 

“No!” Sansa protested. “He's handsome! He’s wonderful! And caring and honest and loyal and -”

 

“Good in bed?”

 

Sansa blushed fiercely. “I’m a lady!”

 

“You’re a woman, same as we are.”

 

“He makes me very happy. I . . . I can't wait to return home to see him."  

 

“So he’s at Winterfell. That narrows the field a bit.”

 

Sansa could have kicked herself.

 

“You were engaged to the king," Mya pointed out. "Yet you prefer someone at home? There are no knights in the north . . ."

 

"He's no knight, it's true."

 

"He must be the son of a nobleman, then," Mya reasoned.

 

"No, Mya dear, she said her parents don't like him," Randa said, grinning, enjoying the game. "He must be of lower birth. Unworthy of our ex-future queen."

 

Sansa's hazy mind scrambled around. "My parents have never commented on his birth. Why would they? They don't know my feelings for him."

 

"But he knows," Randa said.

 

"Yes."

 

"And he cares for you?" Mya asked.

 

Randa laughed. "Of course he does! She's Sansa Stark! Look at her! The face, the lineage, manners dainty as you please!"

 

"'Courtesy is a lady's armor.' That's what my septa used to say. The face and lineage I can't help." Sansa moved her hand to emphasize her point and sloshed wine into her lap.

 

Mya and Randa burst out laughing. Sansa dabbed at the stain and laughed, too. _This wine is so_ good, she thought. _And it's so nice to be with female friends again._ Her mind went to Jeyne and Beth but she'd never had a conversation like this with them.

 

"What of his family? They might make him a match with someone else," Mya suggested.

 

"Mya, she's Sansa Stark," Randa began.

 

"They _could_ ," Mya insisted. “They probably think Sansa’s out of his reach”

 

"His parents are deceased."

 

"So this nameless, low-born, orphaned non-knight has his eye on you and it's up to Lord and Lady Stark to hand you over to him?" Randa laughed. "Oh, I do pity you."

 

This dose of truth sheared the edge off Sansa's buzz.

 

"How do you intend to manage that?" Randa pressed.

 

"I don't know," Sansa answered truthfully.

 

"Has he asked you to marry him?" Mya wanted to know.

 

"Not exactly. We promised to be faithful to each other."

 

Mya nodded. "It's the same with me and Mychel. Only his father is alive."

 

"And you're the orphan with nothing to offer," Randa joked.

 

Mya rolled her eyes at Randa. “Says the one with her eye on Lord Baelish.”

 

Sansa had forgotten about that. “Oh, Randa. Please don’t . . . not Lord Baelish.”

 

“Why ever not?”

 

"I just think you're better off looking elsewhere."

 

"You think I'm better off looking elsewhere for a man with money, power, intellect, and a handsome face? Are such men behind every tree at Winterfell?"

 

There had to be some objection besides the truth. “He's untitled."

 

"He's Master of Coin! That's a title, and quite a nice one!"

 

Sansa smiled. "Yes, but it doesn't come with any land."

 

"That's true," said Mya. "And you don't have any land to offer _him_."

 

"No, but I have other assets. He can't remain blind to them forever."

 

“Well, we make a fine trio,” Sansa said, not wanting further discussion of Lord Baelish to interfere with the soothing effects of her wine. “A surplus of beauty and wit between us and not a sure match to be had.”

 

“You are a dreary drunk, Lady Sansa,” Randa declared.

 

Sansa laughed and then laughed harder. Her laughter was contagious and the three girls giggled and japed until the late afternoon.

 

*

 

Sansa returned to her room in quite an improved mood and thought it time to respond to Sandor's last letter.     

 

_Dear Sandor, You are welcome to take back your blue tunic, however, as it is a gown now, and one I've begun to wear frequently, you will have to retrieve it in private. Your cloak is safe. I will only take it if offered._

 

Sansa grinned as she wrote, picturing the look she knew would be on Sandor's face as he read her message. Teasing him via letter was cruel but, in truth, he'd started it. What was she supposed to think once he suggested he'd have no tunics to wear?

 

Sansa closed her letter with an “I miss you” and sealed it just as Hannah came to help her dress for the evening meal.

 

*

 

Lord Baelish sat at Lady Lysa's right and gave her closed-mouth smiles as Lysa flirted and simpered and reached for his hand as she laughed, "Oh, Petyr, you're _too_ wicked!"

 

"The least of my charms, I’m sure."

 

"Are we interrupting something?" Catelyn asked sharply as she and Sansa stepped farther into the solar.

 

"Of course not," Lord Baelish said, rising smoothly and gliding over to offer an arm each to Catelyn and Sansa. Lysa adjusted herself in her seat with a pout.

 

If Sansa was unhappy to see Lord Baelish among them, she imagined her mother was incensed.

 

"Sister," began Lysa after they were served, "I've been thinking about what you said. About family. About Robert. I've concluded that you're right."

 

Catelyn's eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. "I'm so pleased, Lysa."

 

"Sansa appears to be a caring and obedient daughter."    

 

"She is. I could have not have asked the gods for better," Catelyn answered in a noncommittal tone.

 

With a nod, Lysa said, "Then she will surely make a caring and obedient wife. My Robert deserves no less."

 

Sansa's food seemed to expand in her throat. She swallowed hard.

 

"I - . . . I confess I am surprised, sister. I had no idea you'd been thinking of such an alliance."

 

"Oh, but it was your idea. You said Robert should have contacts outside of the Vale. You mentioned his future marriage. This is the perfect solution. Should anyone ever be foolish enough to threaten my Robert, Ned or your sons would be well placed to come to his aid."

 

Sansa looked at her mother. _No. Don't agree. Please! Please, please, please say no!_

 

Lord Baelish was stroking his pointed beard and smiling benignly, as if paying only scant attention.

 

Robert was watching Sansa with his watery eyes. "If you're my wife, you'll have to do whatever I tell you," he said before scooping more food into his mouth.

 

Sansa looked back at her mother. Every fiber of her being railed against the idea of such a marriage. She considered protesting and proving to her aunt that she was not obedient but she couldn't do it. Years of training kept her silent.

 

“They’re very young,” her mother said, pulling at the edge of her napkin under the table.

 

“Nonsense. She was already promised once to the Lannister boy,” Lysa said with a nod in Sansa’s direction.

 

Cat pursed her lips before continuing. “I really meant that Lord Robert is rather young to be betrothed.”      

 

"They wouldn't have to be married right away. We could wait two or three years. It would be enough for now to announce the match."

 

“Robert is a fine young man but perhaps it would make more sense if he and Sansa got to know each other better before such a dras-, before such a step was taken.” Her eyes lit up. “Why don’t you send him to Winterfell to be Ned’s ward?”

 

“My Robert was born to be Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. He does not need to be a _ward_.”

 

“It's a standard part of every lord's education. You know that. Even Petyr was a ward. He'd be perfectly safe and, besides, I'm sure he’d enjoy getting to know his cousins. Robb, Bran, and Rickon would be delighted to have him in the yard. Boys, you know, are always -”

 

“In the _yard_?” Lysa’s upper lip rose as her nose wrinkled. She turned toward Lord Baelish, who was swirling the wine in his glass. "Petyr, you love Robert as much as I do. What do you say?"

 

He shifted his eyes to Catelyn. “Lady Lysa is right to be cautious. Sending our dear Lord Robert off to parts unknown to be put under the guidance of, you must admit it’s so, the rather dour Lord Eddard would raise some eyebrows. Why, he only recently fled King’s Landing in disgrace -”

 

“That’s _enough_ ,” Catelyn snapped. “However, I am glad you’ve mentioned Ned. Any betrothal made on Sansa’s behalf would be nothing without his consent. And since he’s busy at the moment, I’m afraid any further discussion on the matter would be pointless.” Her hands had been wringing the napkin in her lap but they now fell still and she discreetly took a steadying breath.

 

“Write him. Tonight. There's no need to delay glad tidings. The sooner this war,” Baelish gestured dismissively, “is over, the sooner we celebrate. The decision may be in Ned’s hands but if you were _my_ wife, I'd refuse you nothing,” he said with a slight raising of his wine glass before he took a sip.

 

Catelyn's fury was evident in her straight spine and clenched jaw. “You may rest assured that I will mention this discussion in my next letter,” Catelyn said before picking up her knife and fork and cutting into her meat.

 

“Then it’s as good as settled!” Littlefinger exclaimed.

 

"I know you will consider my offer as carefully as I am considering yours," Lysa added.

 

"Are you? Are you considering my offer? Because your mind seems to be elsewhere."

 

"I'm always thinking of what's best for Robert."

 

Catelyn pressed her lips together and didn't reply.

 

Later, as they walked back to their rooms, Sansa said under her breath, "Don't worry, Mother. Father will never agree to it. _I_ will never agree to it."

 

"I should have sent Mya Stone to talk to my sister," Catelyn responded through gritted teeth. " _She_ , at least, is accustomed to working with stubborn mules."

 

"It's not your fault. Aunt Lysa is desperately in love with Lord Baelish. There's little you could offer that could compete with his attention."

 

"I know that very well now."

 

"Then why do you still seem angry?"

 

Her mother released an uneven breath. "Because Clegane was right.”

 

*

 

Days passed. Catelyn and Lysa were on uneasy terms. Behind closed doors, Lysa accused Catelyn of thinking Robert wasn't good enough for her daughter. Catelyn was eventually able to convince her that the decision was Ned's but Lysa still wouldn’t commit men or supplies to Lord Stannis, feeling that the betrothal should be settled first. Catelyn reminded her sister that the war was happening _now_ and that any marriage between their children wouldn't happen for a few more _years_. Lysa still would not commit. Catelyn considered it spite. Lysa implied it was strategy. Lord Baelish said nothing at all but it was known he was spending nights in Lysa's room. The two sisters were cool to each other, each waiting for the other to see sense. The atmosphere was brittle and, after another tense midday meal, Sansa retreated to the garden to read a letter she’d received from Sandor.

 

She liked the garden. It was good to be on solid ground after spending so much time in the dizzying heights of the castle. She settled herself on to a bench and began to read.

 

_Seven hells, little bird. "Retrieve it in private." That's not all I'll be retrieving, I promise you that._

 

Sansa grinned.

 

_Your father has given me command of the right flank. The Greatjon took a sword through the thigh. He'll live. His snot-nosed son expected to be given command but I have ~~more~~ experience. Your father has kept to his decision despite the complaints. I ignore the bloody lot of them. The men have listened well enough and the more battles they live through, the more they'll trust me. Even so, the chest I had Harry take to your room . . . everything in it is yours if I don't come back. It is similar to the box I gave you._

_Similar to the . . . Oh!_ Sansa realized the trunk had a false bottom. She wondered what he had hidden there.

 

_We are camped outside King’s Landing. Every skirmish, some mouthy bastard has something to say about my “desertion.” Lots of last words. I saw Joffrey once. He was at the back of the line surrounded by the Kingsguard. All those clean white cloaks around Joffrey’s red looked like a bull’s-eye. Fools. Would you like me to bring you his head, little bird? I wouldn’t carry the vile thing all the way up the kingsroad for anyone else._

_Your brother has found himself a woman. One of the Mormont girls. He slinks over to your father and me by the fire trying to pretend he's not in deeper than he is but we're not the green boys he plays us for. We know where he's going when he says he's turning in early. The girl is useful with a battle-axe but I like a woman who can wield a dagger._

_It grows late, little bird. The sooner I seal this letter, the sooner I see you in my dreams. Bah. Your letters are turning me soft. And not soft._

 

Sansa laughed and blushed.

 

"You seem to have an admirer, Lady Sansa. Or, should I say, another one." Lord Baelish smiled down at her though his eyes were like chips of flint.

 

Sansa started. She had not heard him approach. She folded Sandor's letter.  

 

"Who is the fortunate young man, if I might ask?"

 

"No one you know, my lord." Sansa cringed. She should have said the letter was from her sister.

 

"An unknown man could not be worthy of a lady of your stature, Lady Sansa." He seated himself next to her, too close. His eyes dropped into her lap. Sansa folded her hands neatly over her letter. “As a friend of your mother's, let me advise you to save yourself for a man of influence. You have much to offer. It would be a shame to waste your potential."

 

"Thank you for your counsel, Lord Baelish." Sansa looked at him and wondered what he wanted. He had a handsome face, expensive clothes, and the pampered look of a man who could afford a life of ease. Except for his eyes, which were alert. There was nothing suggestive of relaxation about his eyes.

 

He leaned back against the bench, urbane in his ease. "It pains me to see sisters at odds with each other, especially ones who were so like sisters to me. Your mother and aunt and I were always playing games together as children. Kissing games, some of them," the Master of Coin recalled with a gleam in his eye.

 

Something in Sansa's stomach recoiled. She didn’t want to believe it but if she was carrying on with Sandor, it didn't seem so unlikely that her mother had had a romance before she'd gotten married.

 

Littlefinger reached out and took a lock of her hair. He curled it around his leather-gloved fingers. "Let your fun have a purpose, Lady Sansa."

 

Sansa leaned away.

 

"Romantic notions are the luxury of the smallfolk. It won't do to have your head in the clouds." He gave a dismissive look at the Eyrie. "Even if you live among them."

 

"I have no intention of living here," she answered, looking into his eyes.

 

"No?" he asked quietly. "You'd be Lady of the Vale one day. With your Stark and Tully roots, you'd as good as unite the north."

 

"The north is not divided, my lord."

 

His smile verged on becoming a smirk. "These are interesting times. War brings with it so much possibility."

 

"I've never heard anyone talk about war as though it could be a good thing."

 

"The thing about war, Lady Sansa, is that someone must win."


	34. Chapter 34

Sansa sat on the bench long after Lord Baelish had slithered away across the grass. His presence in the garden ruined its peace for her. She stuffed Sandor's letter deep into her pocket with her dagger and returned to her room, flustered. She wasn't sure what to make of Lord Baelish's hinting that she should marry Robert when that seemed at odds with his own purposes. If Lord Baelish married Lady Arryn, he would rule the Vale with her. If Lord Baelish outlived Lady Arryn, Robert would rule. _Does he think he can manipulate me into doing his bidding if Robert dies?_ The idea was distasteful, not that it mattered since she wouldn't be marrying Robert regardless. Still, it niggled at her.

 

One thing was clear, though. She'd have to tell Sandor not to write her anymore while she remained at the Eyrie. She had no reason to think Hannah was perusing her letters but she didn't trust Petyr Baelish. She penned Sandor and, thinking better of it, Arya brief notes explaining that she feared their correspondence might not be private and that she'd write again after she and her mother were homeward bound. Sansa affixed the letters to the ravens herself and watched with a heavy heart as they took off across the endless sky. She returned to her room, gathered up Sandor's letters, read them once more, and consigned them to the fire. They'd looked unmolested in their hiding spot but the risk was not worth keeping them. It was not easy, though. As the paper shifted and curled in the flames and Sandor's words spiraled away in the smoke, Sansa would not allow herself to consider it a loss. Letters were nothing to her memories or her future.

 

_My future . . ._

She’d taken one difficult step so she might as well take another. Her mother would surely ease her mind about her strange conversation with Lord Baelish. Sansa walked across the hall and rapped on her mother's door.

 

"What is it?" Catelyn asked, embroidery spilling over her lap down to her knee, her brow creased with worry as Sansa sat down opposite her,.

 

"Lord Baelish thinks I should marry Robert," Sansa said without preamble.

 

"Yes, he certainly seemed to agree with Lysa's proposition."

 

"He spoke with me about it privately."

 

Her mother's look sharpened. "What did he say?"

 

Sansa related Lord Baelish's assertions that marrying Robert would as good as unite the north.

 

Catelyn shook her head. "Petyr and his schemes. He was always building empires in his mind. Regardless -"

 

"Mother, it doesn't make sense," Sansa protested. "He's supposed to marry Aunt Lysa so why would he want me to -"

 

"Sansa, I don't know what he wants but I must tell you that I'm considering agreeing to Lysa's proposal for a match between you and Robert."

 

"What? No! Mother, no. I won't marry him!" Sansa fought to keep her voice below a scream.

 

"Betrothals can be broken, Sansa," her mother said with a look from under her brows.

 

Sansa's mouth fell open. Sandor would no doubt hear about this. The thought filled her with dread. No others, that's what they'd promised each other. She could only shake her head, so stricken was she at even the suggestion that she pretend to be engaged to her young, spoiled, wimpy cousin.

 

"I won't leave you here, if that's what you're worried about."

 

"But if you break our betrothal after the war," Sansa swallowed the huge lump in her throat, knowing the war could go on forever, "your sister will know you used her and she'll be furious."

 

Catelyn pressed her lips together. "Petyr is having far more success in furthering his aims than I am in furthering mine. If you were thought to be betrothed to Robert, it would naturally follow that House Arryn would support your father's position."

 

It made sense. Sansa couldn't deny that even as the thought sickened her. "But . . .”

 

"But what?"

 

"Mother, I was supposed to marry Joffrey."

 

"Yes. So?"

 

"If I'm publicly betrothed to Robert and break off _that_ match as well . . ."

 

"You'll be viewed as scheming?"

 

"At best."

 

Her mother didn't say anything.

 

"And wouldn't that limit the number of respectable men who might be willing to consider me in the future, if neither my father nor my mother can be trusted to honor the betrothals they've made for me, to say nothing of myself?"

 

Her mother gave her a steady look. "I'll think over what you've said."

 

*

 

The next day, over the the cyvasse board in the library, Robert said, "Cousin Sansa, when we're married, you'll have to let me win."

 

She ground her teeth together. "We are not betrothed but, no, not even then."

 

The young lord screwed up his face but Sansa ignored it and scooted his trebuchet off the side of the board where it lay with the other casualties of Robert's poor strategy.

 

"You will."

 

"I won't.”

 

Robert gave her a petulant look.

 

“Husbands and wives are supposed to work together," she explained, hoping beyond hope that she’d never have to call Robert her husband.

 

“Only one person can truly be in charge. That’s what my mother says.”

 

Sansa’s eyes flitted up to her cousin. He was chewing his lip and kept moving pieces back and forth and stealing glances at Sansa to gauge her reaction. It was irritating  - and unnecessary since Sansa didn’t care enough to react.

 

“Then who will be in charge once your mother weds Lord Baelish?” she asked.

 

“My mother, of course. She’s the Lady of the Vale. Lord Baelish is only an upjumped banker with a flashy cape and a silver tongue.”

 

“I would not let Lord Baelish hear you say that.” _Or anyone else, you foolish boy._

“I didn’t, really. I heard some of the men saying it.”

 

“That was wicked of them. We must hope your mother finds happiness in her marriage. And Lord Baelish as well.”

 

“Mother says she’s happier than ever. Hey!”

 

Sansa had once again outmaneuvered him and ended the game.

 

“That’s not fair!” Robert whined.

 

Sansa stood up. “Enough.”

 

“You said we’d play best three out of five! That was only two!”

 

“I’m hungry. I”ll get something from the kitchens and then we can play our third game. Would you like something?”

 

Robert stared at her, baffled. “Call a servant. That’s what they’re for.”

 

“I’ll only be a moment,” Sansa replied, eager for a break from his company.

 

“Don’t be too long,” Robert said with a pout as he began to sort the pieces.

 

Sansa swept out of the library and headed toward the main hall. She rounded a corner and found Lord Baelish directing a couple of maids and pages.

 

"Quietly, mind you. Now, my retainers will require -"

 

They all turned at her appearance. She stifled a groan, gave them a nod, and continued walking but Baelish fell in step with her moments later.

 

"Have you given any thought to our last conversation, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

 

"To winning the spoils of war? No, I can't say that I have."

 

The flash of annoyance that crossed his face was so brief that Sansa wondered if it had really been there.

 

"To marrying Lord Robert."

 

Sansa stopped and faced him, tired of whatever game he was playing. "And what would you gain if I marry Lord Robert?"

 

Petyr Baelish gave her a pleased smile. "Smart girl. Nearly the same thing I'd win if I married Lady Lysa."

 

"But you _are_ going to marry Lady Lysa."

 

"You have something Lady Lysa does not - Stark blood, the blood of the north."

 

“What difference –”

 

Baelish looked around and continued in an undertone. "Robert is sick, weak, coddled. Marry him and you'll acquire land and wealth in your own right after he dies."

 

"His condition is well managed. I pray it may continue to be so."

 

"His maester is plying him with a steady stream of sweetsleep. The cumulative effects will be devastating."

 

Sansa's stomach dropped. She didn't want to marry her cousin but she didn't want him to suffer or die, either.

 

"That this upsets you does you credit. You can pour all of your attentions into nursing the poor boy knowing you will not have to long sustain the effort. It will only enhance your reputation."

 

"I hope -"

 

"Hope is for the inactive, Lady Sansa. You have been selected by the boy's mother as her successor and Robert himself likes you. What male would not? Think what a comfort your marriage will be to them both. Think how pleased your family will be. The smallfolk will be enraptured."

 

"And how will this benefit you?"

 

"Benefit _us_. With your beauty and background and my intellect and influence as Master of Coin, why, we'd have half of the Seven Kingdoms at our feet, and all without a costly war."

 

"Lord Stannis might take exception to that, my lord."

 

"That and everything else but Lord Stannis is not who the people want, Lady Sansa. Do you not recall how they loved you in King's Landing? How they shouted and cheered for you during the Hand's Tourney? Your worth was as apparent to them as it is to me. _You_ are the queen they want, the queen they need, the queen _I_ need."

 

Lord Baelish's mind skipped along so fast it was hard to keep up. "Your queen?"

 

"I would make a very attentive husband."

 

" _You_? Marry _you_?" Sansa's mind flitted to her mother. That Lord Baelish should want to marry them both made her guts twist.

 

"I am your key to King's Landing. The finance of the realm is in my hands. My influence is deep and vast. I am by no means friendless, Lady Sansa. There are many who would support me, both here and abroad."

 

"I thought you were here to help Joffrey!"

 

"Joffrey will self-destruct and his mother with him. You know that as well as I do. Tywin will keep things interesting for a while but even he won't live forever. The Imp?" He shrugged. "You and I, however, together we could satisfy all the needs of the realm. It would be sweet justice."

 

Sansa kept having to shut her mouth. It all made sense in a crazy way. The smallfolk had accepted her as their future queen readily enough before. _He is flattering me._

 

"You did want to be queen once . . ."

 

It was true. She had wanted to be queen. She had wanted to help the smallfolk and establish a prosperous, peaceful nation. She had envisioned doing so with Joffrey, so long ago, before last Sevenmas, when she was naive, before the man in front of her plotted to have her father murdered.

 

"I did not know you wanted to be king," Sansa said, stalling while she contrived an escape.

 

"I thrive on challenge."

 

Sansa's mind felt thick and gluey. "But you said you'd marry my aunt. She seemed very sure of it. She was telling everyone . . ."

 

"And I will, if I have to, but there is more value in you marrying Lord Robert. You must see that."

 

"And then marrying you." Sansa wanted away from this madman on the instant. What was he even going on about?

 

Littlefinger leaned in. "You would not regret it." The scent of mint reached her nose just as his lips pressed against hers. She hesitated and he deepened the kiss, putting his hands on her arms and pulling her down toward him. Sansa's mind was in a spin. He couldn't believe she was seriously considering any of this. She shook him off, pushed him away, and took a few steps back. "No!"

 

It echoed strangely but then Sansa realized someone else had said “no” just as she had.

 

Sansa whipped around to see Lord Robert gawking at them.

 

"She's supposed to be marrying _me_!"

 

"Gods be good," muttered Petyr.

 

“Robert,” Sansa began, unsure of what to say but knowing the situation had to be brought under control at once.

 

Robert stared at them for a moment longer, his lower lip trembling, his arms jerking once or twice.

 

“Why are you kissing him when you’re supposed to marry me?”

 

“I wasn’t. I –”

 

“I saw you! And you!” Robert added angrily, shifting his gaze toward Littlefinger.

 

Lord Baelish gave him an icy smile and said nothing.

 

Robert quailed under the silence. He fidgeted and glared at Sansa, whose mind was churning without gaining any traction. All she knew was that Robert had to be stopped from saying anything to his mother.

 

“I was congratulating Lady Sansa,” Petyr Baelish said calmly.

 

“On what?"

 

"On her upcoming marriage."

 

Robert opened his mouth to protest.

 

"To you," Baelish added, cutting his eyes for just a moment to Sansa. "Lady Sansa will become my daughter once I've married your mother and she's wed to you. What a snug family we will be."

 

This had clearly not occurred to Robert before. "But she's Lord Stark's daughter."

 

"In literal terms, perhaps. But she might have been mine once, had past events taken a different turn. As it is, better late than never."

 

Robert blinked, his mouth hanging open.

 

"So, my lord, is it unreasonable that a father might give his daughter a kiss?"

 

"No, I suppose not . . ."

 

"I'm glad we can agree. We have more to discuss, my soon-to-be good-daughter and I," Baelish said, tipping his head toward the hall.

 

“I”ll be back in just a moment,” Sansa added, suddenly remembering she’d been on an errand.

 

Robert nodded and moved off in the direction indicated, looking back over his shoulder, Sansa smiling at him all the while, before disappearing from view.

 

"He'll make you a biddable husband, Lady Sansa," Petyr said quietly. "If you take him in hand early."

 

Sansa shook her head. She had no wish to lead Robert on or to sacrifice any part of her life to a lie. "I can't marry him."

 

"Then marry me." He took her hands and spoke quickly. "We can be away before we're missed. It would spare us both an unpleasant first marriage."

 

"No, I can't!" Sandor's face rose in her mind.  She pulled her hands from his grip and considered actually running from him.

 

"I can make you a queen. Destroy your enemies. Give life to your wishes. Stand beside me and you'll want for nothing. All I ask is your hand. In me you would find a liberal partner."

 

Sansa moved her mouth but no words came to her rescue.

 

"And I would by no means stint on our nuptials. You would have no cause for hesitation on that front. We would have a big wedding, the biggest Westeros has ever seen. Every detail to your satisfaction, every seamstress at your command, lemon cakes piled to the ceiling," he added with a sly smile. "There would be no question, no suggestion, not even a _flirtation_ with the idea that our union was not legitimate, legal, or _right_ in the eyes of the laws, man, or gods." He caught up her hand, kissed the back of it, and waited with an assured smile.

 

"That is very generous but . . ."

 

He squeezed her fingers. "Think carefully, Lady Sansa, for such an offer will not come your way again. Romance often leads to regret but a wise decision is a source of satisfaction forever. You're a smart girl. Better, I think, than your grandfather Tully at recognizing a strategic alliance. Now, give me your answer. Will you allow me to make you a gift of the world or will you cast aside all I offer for a diminished future with your nameless paramour?"

 

Sansa was nearly swept away in his onslaught of words but steeled herself to put an end to this once and for all. "I'm sorry, my lord, but my answer is no."

 

He placed his hand over his heart and sketched her a slight bow, all traces of humor evaporated. "You wound me, Lady Sansa."

 

"I am sorry for it but I can not marry you. I wish you and my aunt every joy."

 

Lord Baelish reached up and stroked his pointed beard and said not a word. Sansa took one, two, three steps backwards and then retreated down the corridor that lead to the kitchens.

 

*

 

Sansa could not relax. She chattered on and on to Robert during the evening meal, trying to prevent him from saying anything. She couldn't bring herself to look at Petyr Baelish at all. For his part, he fawned over Lysa, making her blush and laugh like a young girl.

 

Sansa tossed and turned that night. There was a turbulence in the air that thrummed in her ears and frothed up her nerves. She could not just dismiss Lord Baelish, let alone a marriage proposal from him, and expect life to go on without a ripple. No matter how smooth his exterior, she sensed a pride within the man and knew him to be dangerous. She'd gone over their conversation again and again and was certain, aside from her refusal, that she had not said anything that could be perceived as an insult. There would be repercussions, though. Of that she was certain. She was by no means assured of Robert's silence, either. He could inflict a great deal of damage, and might even enjoy doing so if he understood the power he held.

 

Morning brought Hannah. "You're wanted in the throne room, m'lady."

 

"Why?" Sansa found the maid's averted gaze alarming.

 

"Lady Arryn is very upset, m'lady. She's called for you and your mother."

 

_Oh gods, he told. He told anyway._

 

Sansa dashed from her room and found her mother exiting her own room. "Mother -"

 

"I'm sure it's nothing, Sansa. Lysa is given to baseless hysteria. We’ll calm her down."

 

Sansa wasn't so sure. When they entered the throne room, Lysa rose from the carved weirwood seat and stiff-armed a letter at them.

 

Catelyn stepped forward to take it. "What is this?"

 

"Read it," Lysa said, a tear sliding down her cheek.

 

Sansa leaned into her mother to read over her shoulder.

 

_Dearest Lysa,_

_King Joffrey has dispatched me to Highgarden. I delayed only for the pleasure of your company but now that Lady Sansa's unguarded attraction to me has marred our happiness, I can see it is time for me to heed my summons. I will return to your sweet attentions as soon as I am able. If you bear any love for me at all, send men to King’s Landing._

_Affectionately,_

_Petyr_

 

Sansa looked up, stricken. Her aunt's chest was heaving and shiny trails of tears coursed through the powder on her face.

 

“Lysa," Cat began, "I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding."

 

"There is no misunderstanding! Robert saw her attempt to, to _seduce_ my Petyr and Petyr himself said she'd been very aggressive, to his shame and embarrassment. He hoped to spare me the sordid nature of her intent but my dutiful Robert brought Petyr to me to confess all." Lysa threw a murderous look at Sansa and swiped at her tears with the backs of her hands.

 

"I did nothing of the kind!" Sansa cried, certain she was seeing Lord Baelish's hand in this. She hesitated to hurt her aunt with the knowledge of his marriage proposal but to have him paint her as the aggressor was unbearable.

 

"Lysa," Catelyn began again, putting a hand on Sansa's arm.

 

"You've run him off! It's always you!" Lysa wailed. "We were to be _married_! At last! After all this time and you ran him off! You brought _her_ here to lure him away from me!"

 

"That's ridiculous," Catelyn said. "We didn't know he'd be here. _You_ didn't know he'd be here!"

 

Lysa seemed not to have heard. "Then you wanted to use her to take Robert from me! That was your design all along, wasn't it? Ward to Eddard, husband to Sansa, you just want me to be miserable!" Lysa's hands clutched at her dress and her fists beat against her thighs as she folded over in misery. "Both of you wanted that. You and Father. And to think that I almost helped you!"

 

"Lysa, that's not true. Having Robert at Winterfell would be an honor."

 

"No! I won't let you! I won't let you take him! You get out! Get out right now, the both of you! I never want to see you again!"

 

"Lysa -"

 

" _Out!_ " she shrieked, sobbing, nose shiny, red blotches on her cheeks and chest.

 

Sansa took her mother's elbow and steered her out of the room. "She means it," she muttered when they'd gained the hall.   

 

"She'll calm down. She just needs -"

 

"We're leaving, Mother. It's past time."

 

Hannah was nowhere to be found. This didn't surprise or disappoint Sansa. She found her trunk, threw in her belongings, and went to her mother's room.

 

"I'll find Mya," she said as her mother hastily folded her gowns.

 

Sansa instead found Randa looking for her.

 

"I heard. We all heard. And we're coming with you," she said. "Mya's already at the stables."

 


	35. Chapter 35

Ser Rodrik and those men who could be scraped together quickly made the descent with Sansa and Catelyn. The rest would meet them at the Gates of the Moon the next day.

 

Lord Nestor Royce commented how strange it was for all of Lady Arryn's guests to depart in such haste, hoping Lady Catelyn would explain what Lord Baelish had not, but she only said a few words about needing to return to her home and children. Places were made for them at the table that evening and hollow conversation was had as the minutes ticked by. Sansa was sure that, at any moment, a message would come down from the Eyrie and she and her mother would be recalled. Fear made her food stick in her throat and it was a relief when she retired with Randa to the room she'd been invited to share.

 

As Randa punched at her pillow, she said, "You're a coy one, Lady Sansa."

 

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked, pulling the coverlet higher.

 

"You warned me away from Lord Baelish only to kiss him yourself."

 

"You can't think -"

 

"I _did_ think, but not for long." 

 

"That was a foul trick he played." There was no point in pretending Randa didn't know the details. The Eyrie was all but a closed society and word of Lady Sansa's alleged infamous behavior would surely have spread like wildfire. 

 

"Most duplicitous. A shame, given his handsome face."

 

"My aunt was wroth. You don't imagine she would send her men after us, do you?" This, rather than Littlefinger's face, was her main concern.

 

"No, Lady Sansa. She'd have my father keep you captive, if anything," Randa said carelessly through a yawn.

 

It was as though someone had pressed Ice to Sansa's throat.

 

"He's received no such order, fear not. Lady Lysa probably hasn't stopped sobbing long enough to think of it."

 

The night passed by so slowly, Sansa thought it would never end. She heard her name on the lips of the guards and her breath froze in her lungs, her heart hammering madly in her ears. _They've come for me._  She wondered if they already had her mother. Sansa made to get out of bed in an effort to thwart them but their voices moved on down the hall and faded into nothingness. With her hand pressed to her heart, she slumped back against the pillows and exhaled hard. Randa snoozed on beside her but Sansa's eyes and ears were straining for any evidence of approach. After several minutes of silence, she crept out of bed and retrieved her dagger. She had no wish to upset Lord Nestor's household but neither would she be delivered to her aunt and her gaping Moon Door without a fight. She curled on her side and, hugging the dagger to her, eventually fell into a light and fitful sleep.

 

At dawn's first light, Sansa was up and readying for departure herself and the few belongings she'd brought inside. She broke her fast on biscuits and jam with Randa, Mya having returned to the Eyrie to retrieve the rest of the Starks' party. 

 

"This just came for Lady Sansa," said a shy, young page, edging towards them, apprehensive of interrupting.

 

"Well, give it to her, then," Randa commanded with some exasperation. 

 

Sansa accepted the scroll with a smile and a word of thanks. A glance revealed it was a letter from Arya, written before Sansa's cautionary note had reached her. Sansa stuffed the scroll in her pocket to be read in privacy.

 

The sun plodded its way across the sky and was nearly at its zenith before Mya returned. The bustle was sweet music to Sansa's ears. She and her mother were outside waiting when Mya and the men came into view.

 

"I do hope you'll come back and visit me, or, better still, invite me to Winterfell," Randa said as Sansa fastened her cloak. "I fear things will be dreadfully dull here for the longest time. Nothing to look forward to at all."

 

"I would be very happy to have you and Mya come for a visit."

 

"Oh, Mya won't want to leave her mules, stubborn thing, but I'll do my best to convince her."

 

The happy thought of a reunion with her friends was overshadowed by Sansa's desire to be gone.  After a brief rest for their companions, Sansa, Catelyn, and the men turned their back on the Gates of the Moon and began a slow trip west.

 

As they moved single file along the rocky terrain, Sansa read her letter.

 

_Dear Sansa,_

 

_When are you coming home? If our aunt was going to say yes, she would have done so by now. I want to show you the model of the helm Gendry made. He still won't make the real thing until Father approves but he took some scrap and was able to fashion a small version of it. Even our mutual friend will fear me when I'm outfitted properly, and after he gives me lessons. Gendry spars with me but only halfheartedly. He wrestled with me once but then said we couldn't do that anymore as it wasn't proper. I bit his ear and told him he wasn't a septon but he just got all moody and kept to himself for days. I don't know what his problem is. Beth and Jeyne have gotten bored enough to seek out my company. We had this awful picnic the other day with Bran and Rickon. I invited Gendry to join us but he muttered something about ladies and smiths. I told him Beth and Jeyne weren't true ladies but he wouldn't listen. Jeyne played flute for us. She's not half bad. I tried to show them water dancing. They giggled but I insisted that Beth give it a try. She didn't want to but I told her, as the daughter of our master-at-arms, she'd be a natural. She wasn't but I didn't say so. You would have approved. Bran watches me practice a lot, which is nice of him. He understands the movements more than anyone else, though I think it makes both of us sad that we can't spar together. You just can't water dance on horseback. Rickon disappears into the woods with Shaggydog_   _a lot. I figure they're safe enough together so I don't stop him. (Don't tell Mother.) Besides, now and then they bring back game. It's usually a mess from Shaggydog getting at it but the cooks haven't complained._

 

_I want to hear all about your adventures. Then I can bore you with the goings-on here, if the above wasn't enough._

 

_Your sister,_

_Arya_

 

Sansa smiled rather sadly. _I'll be home sooner than you think._

 

*

 

Lord Nestor's men did not pursue them as they stumbled and inched their way along the Bloody Path but, after their second day of travel, a wiry-looking shadowcat slinked through the woods at their side.

 

"We should run it off, Lady Stark," Ser Rodrik said. "Otherwise, what's to stop it from getting closer once we make camp for the night?"

 

"No, Ser Rodrik," Catelyn replied. "It's too dangerous. It'll grow bored with us soon and be off."

 

But the shadowcat didn't grow bored. One time it bounded forward through the brush and disappeared from sight but, a short time later, one of the men spotted it in a tree, its glassy eyes peering down at them. Nightfall came and still the creature was with them.

 

"A little fire will send it on its way," Ser Rodrik announced. “No one will sleep so long as that beast is lurking about.” He grabbed a torch as the others were readying their camp for the night and stalked off towards the trees.

 

"Shoo! Get! We've no food for you!" he called, waving the torch back and forth.

 

The shadowcat drew back.

 

"There now, that's a good boy. Go on."

 

The shadowcat lowered its body.

 

"He understands now," said Ser Rodrik turning back towards the others. "He'll be on his way - ah." His words ended with small gasp as his eyes shot wide and he crumpled forward.

 

A streak had passed over him so quickly it was gone almost before it was seen. The shadowcat had leapt forth, swiped at Ser Rodrik, and bounded into the darkness of the trees on the opposite side of the road.

 

Everyone rushed toward Ser Rodrik. His arm and leg appeared draped in thick, dark cloth. It took Sansa a moment to realize she was seeing blood. Then the men crowded closer and she could hear the sound of ripping fabric and murmured oaths. They hauled Ser Rodrik to the cart and Sansa held a torch so the men could see.

 

"Thank the gods," Catelyn said when they discovered the thigh wound was long but not deep enough to cause permanent damage.

 

The shadowcat's claws might have spared the leg but they'd opened Ser Rodrik's elbow to the bone. A flap of skin and muscle hung sickeningly loose. Sansa hurried to fetch some thread and held a needle in the fire as long as she could bear it. Blowing on the needle, she rejoined the group and, to her relief, one of the men began the unpleasant task of stitching the flesh back together after another man had poured scalding wine on the wounds.

 

"Right as always, my lady," Ser Rodrik said softly as Catelyn took his other hand, sucking his breath through his teeth as his arm was wrapped in a makeshift sling.

 

"Hush," Catelyn responded. "You were trying to protect us. I could never fault you for that."

 

Their camp was uneasy that night. Sansa felt she was awoken every few moments by some threatening sound or other. They were on their way before dawn, Ser Rodrik insisting he could ride but forced to bear the indignity of being bumped along on the cart with their supplies. Little could be done to make him comfortable but Sansa rode with him the next afternoon, hoping to distract him at least a little. She would have offered to sing but she knew he wasn't fond of music. She hesitated to give him false hope regarding his recovery and he would have detected and despised artificial cheerfulness a league away anyway so Sansa said, "I had a letter from Arya. Beth is well."

 

"I'm very glad to hear it," Ser Rodrik said, grimacing as he was jostled.

 

Sansa adjusted a bag under his arm, "Arya tried to teach her water dancing while they were on a picnic with my brothers."

 

Ser Rodrik smiled. "My Beth? Seems a doomed mission from the start. I think she's happier with a needle and a length of fabric."

 

"Beth is a talented seamstress but you know how persistent Arya can be. She's most eager for our return."

 

"She's most eager to run me ragged in the yard, more like," he said, not unkindly.

 

"It's very generous of you to teach her with the men. I know she appreciates it and she seems to be skilled."

 

Ser Rodrik considered that. "She's shown a willingness to master the basics, which is commendable. Footwork and handling can be tedious to learn but, if you don't get them right, or if you learn the techniques incorrectly, they'll always be detriments."

 

"But what of size and strength? Those cannot be learned."

 

"Both are negligible advantages against an intelligent competitor."

 

Sansa wasn't so sure. "A plow will clear a field no matter how tough the grass is. Isn't it the same in battle? Won't the larger, bolder man usually prevail?"

 

Ser Rodrik fixed his eye on her. "Battle often results in one-on-one engagement, however briefly. Don't discount the horses, either, my lady. Training your mount to ignore everything but your commands is laborious but as crucial as training yourself."

 

"So with the right training and the right horse, Arya could be as successful as the best knights in the realm?" Sansa tried not to sound as doubtful as she felt. Imagining her sister in a tilt against Jaime Lannister just seemed preposterous, let alone imagining her as the victor of such a pairing. 

 

Ser Rodrik chuckled. "She thinks so. She told me quickly enough how she held her own against Clegane. She's not lacking for confidence, that’s for sure."

 

"She really did do well."

 

"Oh, I don't doubt her efforts, not at all, but Clegane fights with an unusual rage. He fights an opponent who isn't there. Demons, maybe, I don't know. But I've no doubt he would have made short work of your sister if he'd a mind to."

 

"I believe he'd make short work of nearly any opponent. He's one of the best fighters in the realm. And he has a good horse," Sansa added with a smile.

 

"A horse's temperament generally reflects that of its rider. Clegane is certainly not lacking in skill. He has a deftness that's unusual in such a big man. For all his strength, he fights efficiently rather than just hacking away. He runs his mouth too much, but I've not seen him fight dirty. Not like King Joffrey. I was certain that boy had learned all his tricks from Clegane but it appears not."

 

"Was Joffrey not skilled? You won't pain me with the truth."

 

Ser Rodrik hesitated but spoke honestly. "His form is lazy, his skills are middling. The swagger he has down but you'll notice, my lady, that true knights do not parade like peacocks. There is a world of difference between a battlefield and the tourney grounds. I was surprised, if I may speak the truth. The young man was surrounded by some of the most skilled fighters in all of Westeros but none of it seems to have rubbed off on him. Ser Jaime, King Robert, Ser Barristan and the rest of the Kingsguard. Clegane was quick enough to defend his lord when they were with us but I never did see him or any of them attempt to coach the boy. It struck me as very strange indeed." Ser Rodrik shook his head, baffled.

 

"I doubt Joffrey would have wanted to be taught. He has a very high opinion of his own skills. I don't believe San-, I mean, Clegane enjoyed the king's company very much."

 

"Oh no?" was all Ser Rodrik said in response, though he appeared surprised.

 

"But what about fighters of quality?" Sansa asked, dismissing thoughts of Joffrey. She'd not forgotten Sandor's intention to kill his brother. She'd heard from Sandor so he lived but she had not heard of the death of the Mountain. Surely that news would have reached even the Eyrie but neither Sandor nor her father had mentioned such an event. The Cleganes were supposed to have clashed at Riverrun. Had it not happened? Was a confrontation still looming? The idea made Sansa fearful but she put voice to her worries in hopes Ser Rodrik could dispel them. "Clegane and his brother were supposed to fight each other at Riverrun, according to my father. They both compete at an elite level. Who do you think would prevail?" Sansa hoped she didn't sound coy or, worse, leading, but Ser Rodrik knew fighting and she dearly wanted his opinion.

 

"I've only ever seen The Mountain That Rides compete once. Biggest man I ever saw. Brutal, too. If Clegane fights heatedly, the Mountain fights in cold blood. There is something utterly dispassionate . . . almost mechanical about him. It's chilling to watch."

 

"I agree. He is a terrifying man. I saw him cleave his horse's head nearly clean off."

 

Ser Rodrik pressed his lips together. "A lady like you should not have had to witness such a thing. Certainly not at a tourney. But it proves the point."

 

Sansa nodded. "It does indeed. Father mentioned once how Ser Gregor had aimed for Clegane's head but how Clegane had not responded in kind."

 

"Your father has a keen eye for foul play and rightly so. He mentioned the events at that tourney to me, too. Shocking lack of protocol." 

 

"Indeed but if the bigger man fights dirty and the quicker man fights cleanly, who's more likely to succeed?"

 

"It is hard to say, my lady," Ser Rodrik said, shifting his leg, "but I'd put my stags on the man with the toughest mind. All men get tired eventually. Being able to maintain focus, to remember your training, to take smart risks, to keep your timing sharp, these are the things that define a victor. Wanting it is not enough. Wanting it too much can make you desperate and sloppy, which will take the edge off your form. There are many variables, the least of which are size and strength." He covered his mouth to stifle a yawn.

 

Sansa nodded, dissatisfied. She knew he couldn't predict a winner but she'd been hoping for something to hope for. "I'm sure you're right," she said, moving items around on the cart in order to make Ser Rodrik comfortable. She could see he was fatigued and sat quietly, thinking, as he drifted off into a nap.

 

*

 

Eventually, they reached the same inn they'd stopped at on their way to the Eyrie. Ser Rodrik's wounds were raw but uninfected. Though he opposed it vociferously, Catelyn declared they would spend two days at the inn and that Ser Rodrik would have a room to himself and not just space in the stables with some of the other men. 

 

Sansa silently agreed with her mother's insistence that Ser Rodrik needed rest and she herself was glad of a rest and a bath, too. She penned a short note to Sandor their first evening at the inn.

 

_Dearest Sandor,_

 

_We have left the Eyrie. Fled, truth be told. There is no easy way to say this so I will come to the point. Lord Baelish kissed me, Lord Robert saw it, and my aunt was enraged. Believe me, I did not want to kiss Lord Baelish. He'd been hinting that I should marry Lord Robert and, after what he feels will be my cousin's early demise, that I should then proceed to marry him. He has deranged notions of being king and my helping him to secure the north, the Riverlands, and the Vale of Arryn. I refused, of course, and he left my aunt a note suggesting it was I who had chased after him. My aunt believed her betrothed, to no one's surprise, and accused my lady mother of plotting to take Robert from her and using me to do so. It was terrible. She was most upset and wouldn't listen to reason. I would rather not think further on it. Needless to say, my mother and I were unsuccessful in securing more men and supplies for my father and you. That is my biggest disappointment and weighs heavily on my mind. We are at an inn until the day after next. The innkeep relayed grave news of the war, which further excites my disappointment and unease. Please write to me and assure me of your safety. I am well. We all are, except for Ser Rodrik, who was attacked by a shadowcat. He will recover from his injuries, thank the Seven, but it is unclear how much use he will have of his arm. I am eager to be home. I'm praying for calm water out of Saltpans. It will be good to be in the north again. Life has been all sky and valley lately. I am running on unforgivably. It's just that I miss you and wish to prolong my time in your company, even if it's only as I write you. I pray you will join me at Winterfell soon._

 

_Your Sansa_

 

Sansa sealed the letter to Sandor and then responded to her sister's missive. She informed Arya that they were returning, that she was looking forward to seeing her, and that she should not tell Beth her father had been injured, since his recovery seemed almost certain. 

 

*

 

Ser Rodrik did, in fact, improve, at least until they set sail from Saltpans en route to White Harbor. Then he was dreadfully seasick and, hampered by his injuries, frequently unable to do more than hang over the railing in misery.  Sansa asked the captain's mate for ginger tea but there was none to be had. She and her mother did everything they could to ease the poor man's suffering but, alas, they were not solid ground.

 

One cloudy day, as the grey sky made the sea look like greasy pewter, Sansa and Catelyn watched the desolate, stony shores of the Fingers go by. Sansa had not told her mother of Lord Baelish's proposal, lacking the privacy and timing required for what might be distressing news. She wondered if proximity to the Fingers brought the former ward to her mother's mind and had trouble reconciling the image of a young, lovelorn Petyr Baelish with the slick Master of Coin she'd come to know.

 

"The Fingers seem a lonely place," Sansa commented.

 

"Mm," Catelyn said, her gaze in the distance.

 

"Did you ever visit there? When Lord Baelish was a ward to your father?"

 

Catelyn's brows contracted. "No. There was no cause for that."

 

"I imagine he was eager to leave home."

 

"I believe he was. Petyr likes to mix in society."

 

"He preferred your society to anyone's."

 

"Perhaps. Once."

 

"He was willing to duel for your hand. He must have cared for you very much.  Do you ever regret not marrying him? "

 

Her mother turned to her with a suspicious look. "Certainly not. It was out of the question. Why do you ask?"

 

Sansa shrugged. "You said yourself Lord Petyr could be sweet when he was a younger man. Did you ever think he'd get from there," she nodded toward the stretches of barren beach, "to the capital?"

 

"There was always a grasping ambition about him."

 

"He's done very well for himself."

 

"So it would appear. Why the sudden interest?"

 

"I was wondering if he's the sort of man you'd want for me."

 

Catelyn turned away from the railing to face Sansa directly. "Is this somehow about Clegane? Because he has nothing to offer you. No land, no fortune, no family name -"

 

Sansa was stung. "Lord Baelish could offer me much and more, in addition to a presence at court, but you would not want him for me, would you?"

 

"He's going to marry Lysa."

 

"If she'll still have him but that's not what I asked. Would you want him for me?"

 

"No, he is much changed."

 

"So it's his character you object to."

 

"Yes," Catelyn said stiffly.

 

Sansa couldn't help herself. "And Sandor's character, since you brought him up?"

 

"Only less slightly willful and stubborn than you are being at this moment. Sansa, if Clegane has had the audacity to make you an offer directly, Seven help me -"

 

This was going all wrong. "Lord Baelish made me an offer."

 

"On Robert's behalf, yes, I know," Catelyn said impatiently.

 

"No, Mother, he made me an offer of himself."

 

Catelyn gaped at her. "Made an offer to _you_. _My_  daughter."

 

Sansa wasn't sure if her mother was more angry or shocked. "Yes."

 

"And you said nothing of this until _now_? By the Mother, Sansa, why did you not come to me _immediately_?" Catelyn said, astounded.

 

"I refused him."

 

"I should think so!" her mother all but yelled, pressing her hand to her chest and taking a deep breath.

 

"I think he's half mad, Mother, truly."

 

Catelyn pressed her lips into a severe line. "Out with it. All of it."

 

So Sansa related Littlefinger's offer: the queenship, the wealth, the partnership with one of the realm's most powerful and influential men.

 

When she was done, her mother just stared at her, a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and fury on her face.

 

"I assume you're not sorry I declined his hand."

 

"I'm shocked he would do such a thing, with never a word to me about it."

 

"He suggested we leave right then. He assured me no one would stop us. He promised me a wedding so extravagant that no one would dare comment that it was not our first."

 

Her mother had no words.

 

Sansa didn't want to upset her further so she said simply, "Please don't worry yourself. Nothing could have tempted me to elope with him. I saw him for what he is - corrupt in every way."

 

"So it would seem," Catelyn said with a touch of bitterness.

 

"I hope you're not angry with me for refusing a betrothal to Robert . . ."

 

Her mother sighed. "He is - was - an eligible match . . ."

 

"So was Joffrey. So was Lord Baelish, in some regards."

 

"They are not the only men in the Westeros, Sansa. Rest assured, your father and I will discuss your prospects when we get home."

 

Catelyn's tone was still angry so Sansa merely nodded and let the conversation drop.

 

*

 

Even though it was unnecessary, there was some small fanfare upon their return to Winterfell. Sansa hugged her siblings and Nymeria hard and answered their rapid-fire questions as best she could, promising them a full accounting of her trip later. She was embarrassed when her mother reported that Lady Arryn still declined to involve herself in the war but this was met with assurances that they had surely done all they could and of course Lady Arryn's desire to protect her son, and their own lady's nephew, made sense even if it was disappointing. No one doubted Lord Stark's ability to help Lord Stannis's ascension to the Iron Throne. Everyone was very kind but Sansa felt uneasy, her role in the unsuccessful outcome of their trip only too fresh in her mind.

 

After they'd finished speaking with everyone who needed a bit of their time, Sansa willingly and gratefully let her maids draw her a bath and brush out her hair. She sank into her bed which was as soft as custard after spending so many nights out in the open and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

 

The next morning, Sansa awoke to a commotion in the hall. For a split second, she had no idea where she was and looked around confused at her own belongings. Then a knock on the door brought her siblings (Hodor carrying Bran) and their wolves tumbling into her room. They'd thoughtfully brought trays of food. Out of deference to Bran, they dragged pillows off the bed, piled onto the floor, and caught up amidst much laughter and joking. They were eager to hear about their cousin Robert and Aunt Lysa and Sansa gave as kind a description as she could. She would tell Arya later about the bungled betrothal but she went on about the castle and the journey there and back at the request of her brothers, Rickon exclaiming over their encounter with a real live shadowcat.

 

Arya brought with her the model helm Gendry had fashioned after their design. Bran stifled a groan and Rickon muttered, "This again?" but Arya was undeterred. In truth, t he helm, even in miniature, was a work of art. Bold yet feminine and graceful, it somehow captured the best parts of Arya's personality. It seemed to Sansa that Arya, despite pointing out every feature, had failed to grasp the admiration of the artist in the exquisitely wrought details. 

 

*

 

Slowly, normalcy returned to Winterfell. Sansa resumed her lessons and spent her free time with Jeyne and Beth. Lady Stark spoke with each of Jeyne's instructors and, upon hearing universal complimentary reports, allowed Jeyne to reduce her schedule and even asked her to play for the household after an evening meal, which Jeyne did to general acclaim, blushing happily.

 

The usual hum of industry about the castle and grounds was but a murmur with most of the men missing but there was plenty to do for those who remained. Sansa and Arya insisted on cleaning and polishing the weaponry, since Ser Rodrik was unable to do so. They made themselves comfortable in the room where sparring supplies were kept. This afforded them a view of the yard while giving them the privacy to talk. Sansa told Arya everything she'd omitted earlier regarding her time in the Vale.

 

" _Two_  proposals?" Arya exclaimed as she ran a whetstone over the edge of a blade.

 

"No, one proposal, one match. There's a difference," Sansa answered as she polished a helm. 

 

"That hardly matters when both are horrible options. _Yecchhhh._ ”

 

"Mother said she and Father will discuss my prospects when Father returns home."

 

Arya grew more serious. "What are you doing to do?"

 

"I don't know!" Sansa felt cornered.

 

"What about Clegane? Do you want to marry him?"

 

"Yes," Sansa said without thinking, surprising herself.

                                                                                                                                               

"Does he want to marry you?"

 

"He hasn't asked me."

 

"Oh." Arya's eyes widened in surprise. "But he probably wants to, right?"

 

"It won't matter if Father won't agree to it."

 

"You could run away and get married . . ." Arya suggested without conviction.

 

"That would be like admitting I was doing something wrong." 

 

Arya gave her a sympathetic look and a half shrug as she grabbed another sword to buff.

 

Sansa didn't want to discuss her own hopeless situation anymore. "So what about you and Gendry? Is he still m'lady-ing you to no end?"

 

Arya nearly smiled but made a valiant attempt at not looking too ecstatic. "I kissed him."

 

Sansa gasped. "You _what?!_  When? How did it happen?"

 

"Well, I got tired of him avoiding me so I went to drag him to the yard. He kept coming up with stupid excuses so, to shut him up, I kissed him."

 

"And then what??"

 

"He kissed me back but then stopped to say we shouldn't be kissing but then he kissed me some more anyway. But that was it. That's all that happened, I swear."

 

"When was this??"

 

"After I got your letter saying you were coming back. I told him about it and he started getting all moody again. It was really getting on my nerves."

 

"So what are you going to do? I mean, you can't really expect to keep this secret, can you?"

 

"Keep what secret? A few kisses?" Arya shrugged like it was no big deal.

 

"But surely . . ." Sansa didn't want to imply that things wouldn't stop there. It was none of her business and she didn't really want to think about her sister doing that anyway. 

 

"Even if he found out, Father wouldn't mind," Arya said in all seriousness. "He likes Gendry. Why else spare him from the Wall?"

 

"There's a big difference between giving someone a choice of vocation and allowing someone to seduce your daughter."

 

Arya laughed. "Weren't you listening? I seduced him, if anything."

 

"You might want to leave that part out when you explain things to Father."

 

"Sansa, you worry too much. And you missed a spot over there." 

 

Sansa was pretty sure she wasn't the one missing something but she didn't want to trample her sister's confidence. Besides, Arya and Gendry were just getting to know each other. Sansa was already certain that, for her, there could be no one but Sandor. 

 

*

 

As happy as Sansa was to be home, once the novelty of their return wore off, tedium set in. There had been no news from Sandor and only one letter from her father to her mother expressing disappointment, though not blame, over the lack of additional men and supplies. The war was raging in earnest. Lord Stannis's men had been able to take advantage of some blunders made under Joffrey's leadership but victory was far from certain. The days stretched into weeks and Sansa's assurances to herself that she'd hear from Sandor any day now were ringing ever more hollow in her mind. She was aware her moonblood was almost upon her again so she tried to maintain perspective but she was so bored and out of sorts that it was almost enough to make her cry. She flopped onto her bed and frowned at everything in her room: her books, the childish dolls she'd never been able to part with, her sewing basket, Sandor's trunk, the string of dried flowers she'd hung on her mirror . . .

 

Sandor's trunk! How could she have forgotten about it? He'd said everything in it was hers if, well, she didn't want to think about that, but the idea of having some sort, _any_  sort of contact with him was irresistible. She swung her legs off the bed and, retrieving the key Harry had left for her, hurried over to the small trunk that had sat forgotten in the corner of her room. She sat on her heels and opened it. It was less full than she had expected. Inside were several cloth bags cinched at the neck and a small, plain wooden box. Sansa pushed open the necks of the bags and found each was filled with gold dragons. She was momentarily stunned to see the small fortune. This was not what she had expected at all. Wondering what other surprises were in store, she picked up the box and examined it but there was nothing eye-catching about it at all. Sansa opened the hinged lid and found it contained two rings and a hair comb. The prettier of the two rings was set with amber and jet and Sansa assumed it must have belonged to Sandor's mother. She turned it around and around but did not try it on, feeling that would be disrespectful. The other ring was a simple metal band that bore some faint scratches and a nick. This must have belonged to Sandor's father and she wondered why he kept it, seeing as how he seemed to harbor some resentment toward the man. The hair comb was a worn thing with a faded tatty feather and a few indeterminate jewels that might have been pretty when new. Sansa held the jewelry in her palms and wondered about the people to whom they'd belonged. Feeling as though she was somehow intruding on their privacy, she returned them to their box and then put it and the bags of coins on the floor. Sansa felt around the floor of the trunk until she came to a catch. She gingerly upended the trunk and let the floor fall forward. When she lifted it away, a paper fell on to her knees. Sansa's brows drew together. She picked it up.  Her breath hitched when she read the words "Last Will and Testament." She thought to turn away but her eyes were already skimming the neat lines of text.

 

_I am Sandor Clegane and I swear by the Stranger that this is my reckoning and my will._

 

_I leave all my worldly possessions to Lady Sansa Stark of House Stark, Winterfell, Westeros:_

 

_* the sum of my holdings at the Iron Bank_

 

There was a staggering amount listed with an 'as of' date that was so close to their departure from King's Landing that it brought a lump to Sansa's throat.

 

_* one portrait of Alynor Clegane_

 

_* one House Clegane arms_

 

_* three items of jewelry (one man's ring, one lady's ring, one hair comb)_

 

The approximate, minimal value was listed.

 

_* various armor and weaponry - includes mount_

 

An inventory and the market value of each piece followed.

 

Beneath the brief list of effects was a narrative from Sandor. Sansa knew such text was common and usually used to pass on final words of love to one's next of kin but the brevity of it clutched at her. That he should think of her alone, to be without another single person he cared about, was too lonely and too much.

 

_My gold is Lady Sansa's to do with as she pleases. I trust Stranger, my warhorse, to her care. He will tolerate no others anyway. My body and my sword may be disposed of together as Lady Sansa sees fit but I request that my heart be cut from my chest and given into her keeping. If she will allow it, inter my heart with her. By the authority of the Iron Bank, let my will be done in death._

 

His heavy signature was at the bottom next to the rolling script of an envoy of the Iron Bank. A seal and an embossed key legitimized Sandor's bequests.

 

Tears flooded over Sansa's cheeks and she regretted giving in to her curiosity. She'd only been meant to see this in the event of Sandor's death and, now, she felt as though she'd challenged fate with her lack of restraint. Carefully, she returned the paper to the trunk and arranged the bags and jewelry box as precisely as she could, hoping they'd look untouched to the gods who could take Sandor from her in an instant. She said a prayer that she'd never again lay eyes on the items hidden in Sandor's trunk.

*

 

Sansa watched Gendry and Arya spar without really seeing either of them. A few days had passed but she'd been dogged by a pervasive melancholy and fear. If her selfish, nosy, boredom-induced snooping in any way brought about . . . she couldn't even think it. She blinked the tears out of her eyes and silently recited various prayers until she calmed down. Across the yard, Maester Luwin appeared and Sansa cleared her throat and stood up straight, refocusing her eyes, if not her attention, on her sister and her own hopeless love interest.

 

"Good day to you, Lady Sansa," the maester said quietly.

 

"And to you."

 

"This just came for you." He held out a scroll.

 

"Thank you," Sansa said with forced calm, taking it. _Please, don't be word that Sandor has died. Not that. Not that. Please. Please, not that._

 

Maester Luwin commented with a smile, "If only Arya was so enthusiastic about her other lessons."

 

"She's always preferred to be active." Despite her efforts at civility, Sansa’s eyes dropped to the scroll.

 

Maester Luwin seemed to sense he was delaying her, wished her well, and moved away. Sansa stepped back into an alcove, took a deep breath, and tore open the seal.

 

_Sansa, my little bird, we are returning to Winterfell. I have chosen an old, tired-looking raven to carry this message so, if you feel any impatience for my return, the wait will not be too long. Your Sandor_


	36. Chapter 36

"He's coming home!" Sansa shrieked. "HE'S COMING HOME!"

 

She saw Arya and Gendry's heads snap up and amended her yelling to, "They're coming home!"

 

Their mouths had just formed into Os of surprise when Sansa took off running to find her mother.

 

"Wait!" Gendry called after her. "Who won the war?"

 

But Sansa was already inside, flat-out running through the halls. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rikard go by in a blur. She skidded to a halt, grabbing onto a corner to slow her momentum, and yelled, "Prepare Clegane's room! Today!"

 

The steward had just opened his mouth to reply but Sansa was already gone.

 

Winded, with a stitch in her side and legs burning from the stairs, Sansa burst into the family's solar to find her mother smiling over her own scroll.

 

"They're coming home!" Sansa cried breathlessly.

 

Catelyn stood and threw her arms around her elder daughter. "I know! At last!" She exhaled slowly. "Oh, Sansa, this is the most wonderful news!"

 

For long moments they just hugged and grinned at each other.

 

"You heard from Father? What else did he have to say?"

 

"They were successful. Lord Stannis has claimed the Iron Throne. Your father bent the knee and is leading his men home."

 

"What of Joffrey and the rest?"

 

"Prisoners. Subject to Lord Stannis's justice. Your father was uncertain what the king, the new king, was planning to do about them."

 

"Did he say when they're coming home?" Sansa was coming to realize just how much information she was missing.

 

"He'll send word when they're a day or two away. He was readying to leave King's Landing when he wrote his letter."

 

Sansa was so elated she felt as though she could fly.

 

"There was one other bit of news," Catelyn added with a more serious expression.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Your father has approved a betrothal between Robb and Lyanna Mormont. It seems likely they will wed upon their return."

 

Sansa's mouth fell open in surprise. She remembered Lyanna as a vivacious, energetic girl from the few times the denizens of Bear Island had visited Winterfell over the years. "How wonderful," she said.

 

"Yes," Catelyn agreed, turning away.

 

"You don't seem pleased."

 

Her mother sighed. "It would have made more sense to make a match with Shireen Baratheon."

 

"Not if Robb loves Lyanna."

 

"What makes you think he loves her?"

 

Sansa faltered. "Sandor mentioned they were spending time together, Robb and Lyanna."

 

"What else did he mention?"

 

"That she's quiet skilled with a battleaxe."

 

"That was all?"

 

"Yes."

 

Catelyn nodded. "Well, it is an acceptable match if not an advantageous one. House Mormont has always been loyal to the Starks. I just wonder at your father's reasoning."

 

"Well," Sansa said with a big smile, "you'll be able to ask him soon enough."

 

*

 

Two advance riders brought news of Lord Stark's return. They were greeted with thunderous cheers. The men would be at Winterfell in two days' time. Lady Stark sent twenty men to meet them on the way. Some had carts of food, others took spare horses. They were to assist with the wounded and perform any other tasks that would hasten their lord's return. Sansa spent the first day ensuring Sandor's room and clothing were freshened to her specifications. She had a page haul Sandor's trunk back to his quarters and was glad to see it go. The second day Sansa rose early, bathed in scented water, dressed with care in the gown she'd fashioned from Sandor's old tunic, and instructed her maid most particularly on the arrangement of her hair. 

 

She was a permanent fixture on the ramparts after that. Many people were. Anticipation rippled back and forth between them. Sansa felt her luck. Unless some evil had befallen Sandor or her father on the road, she, at least, could expect a happy reunion. She knew some folks would not be so fortunate. Many a prayer was whispered as they waited. At long last, in mid-afternoon, the first rider, a squire, appeared, churning up dirt on the road in his haste to reach the castle.

 

A collective gasp went up and the waiting group stampeded down to the courtyard. Sansa rushed to the raised platform from which she'd watched the men leave so long ago. She stood quivering with her family. Her siblings' wolves prowled around the gate, noses sniffing the air, tails twitching. Moments before the beat of hooves could be heard, Shaggydog gave a long, piercing howl. And then they were there. Her father, Robb, Sandor in his dog's-head helm. The courtyard flooded with men and horses. Grooms and every available young boy were grabbing reins and leading horses to the stables. There were cries of joy, sobs of grief, yelled greetings and claps on backs, jingling tack, clanging armor, a thousand feet shuffling in the dirt. The mass of people ebbed and swirled in front of Sansa but she saw only one. Sandor tucked his helm under his arm and shook his hair back. All sound and motion ceased when his eyes met Sansa's. Sansa blinked back the tears in her eyes and gave a wobbly smile. Sandor's posture softened just slightly and he reached back and touched the ribbon from her smallclothes, now just a rag, that was still knotted to the hilt of his sword but then Harry began gathering up Stranger's reins and Sandor was forced to dismount. He looked again and gave her a small nod. Sansa began to move to the front of the platform and was suddenly struck from behind.

 

"WILLARD!" was blasted in her ear as she pitched forward, the ground rushing toward her and then flashing away as she was snapped back upright.

 

"WILLARD!" Jeyne screamed again, tearing into the crowd.

 

Sansa's first nonsensical thought was that the Lannisters' men had somehow followed the northeners to Winterfell undetected. Why else would Willard be there? Then a raspy chuckle came from her side and she realized it was Sandor who had caught her.

 

"What is  _he_  doing here?" she asked, looking up at him.

 

"Isn't it obvious, little bird? He's my hostage." He looked back toward Willard and Jeyne. "Never been a better-treated one, either," he added with another chuckle.

 

Through the throng, Sansa saw Jeyne launch herself at the red-headed man-at-arms and kiss him with as much fervor as he kissed her back. Good-natured laughter surrounded them.

 

Sansa gawked, stunned. She turned back to Sandor who was raking his eyes down her body.

 

"I like the dress."

 

"I - " The smell of him caught her. Horse, yes, and road and sweat but that undeniable scent of  _him_  penetrated her brain and brought home the fact that he was really, truly, and safely back at her side.

 

"You should greet your father."

 

Sansa knew he was right and gave a small, "Oh!" when he suddenly picked her up and placed her back on the platform. Just at that moment, Ned, flanked by Summer and Shaggydog, and followed more slowly by Nymeria, had finally been able to reach the dais, being waylaid by seemingly every single person as everyone wanted to bid their lord a welcome home. Ned's family rushed him, hugged him, exclaimed over him. Robb came next, hand in hand with Lyanna, who declined to ascend the dais. Ned broke away to move to the edge of the platform. Raising his hands, he addressed his people. He thanked his soldiers for their solidarity and obedience and praised those who had fallen. He pledged to meet the next day with each family who had suffered a loss. The day after that, there would be a feast to celebrate their success and Lord Stannis's coming coronation as king and and to distribute the spoils they'd earned in war. 

 

The words all washed over Sansa as background noise. Her eyes moved between Sandor and Jeyne. Sandor had moved off to the side. Nymeria had joined him and he was ruffling her fur as she knocked her huge head against his hip. Jeyne was wrapped in Willard's arms and listened to Lord Stark as tears streamed over her cheeks to drip off her trembling chin.

 

By the time the crowd began to thin, it was nearly dusk. Catelyn had ordered a generous and hardy meal to be served an hour hence and the men headed off to wash and spend a little time with their families before coming to the great hall in droves. Sansa trailed along after her family and wondered where Sandor had gotten to, since he'd disappeared somewhere in the chaos. In the solar, Ned announced Robb's bethrothal to the family. Robb actually blushed as his siblings congratulated him and toasted to his happiness.

 

"We'll dine privately with the Mormonts tomorrow," Ned said.

 

They spent just a few more moments together before it was time to freshen up for the meal. Sansa returned to her room briefly to have her maid fix her hair. Then she stopped at Sandor's room in hopes of walking to the hall together. He wasn't there. She passed a somewhat frazzled-looking Rikard and a thought occurred to her.

 

"Rikard, Lord Sandor has brought back a hostage. He'll need accommodation. Something decent."

 

"Yes, Lady Sansa. Lady Stark has already seen to it."

 

"Oh. Thank you," was all Sansa could find to say in reply. How her mother had managed to handle this detail so quickly, she couldn't fathom.

 

Sansa made her way to the front of the great hall, stopping and chatting every foot, genuinely pleased to see so many familiar faces and feeling little stabs of pain as she learned of those lost. Eventually she reached her chair. As a rich and creamy mushroom soup was placed in front her, she found Sandor sitting at a table in the middle of the room, talking, laughing, and drinking with other men-at-arms. Willard was with him and Jeyne was with Willard. It struck Sansa that Sandor's presence was no longer a matter of interest to anyone. Even Willard seemed accepted. Sansa didn't see quite how that was but figured the long weeks of travel would have made Willard known to the others and his kind and easygoing personality was not as likely to draw suspicion as, well, someone with a less friendly demeanor. It rankled her just slightly that no one was muttering "turncloak" under their breath but she shook off her acrimony. She was still confused but there was time to learn the particulars later. She smiled as she thought,  _There's nothing but time now._

 

The wine flowed and the room grew ever louder. Tonight was not a night for speeches but for enjoying the company of those long-missed. Word of Robb's betrothal spread through the room and added to the celebratory atmosphere. The warriors, all of whom looked thinner, ate voraciously. Sansa left the dais to greet the Mormonts and spent several minutes talking with Lyanna, who she liked even more than before. The girl had a quick wit but, more importantly, gazed at Robb with adoration, which seemed to smooth some of his seriousness. Sansa had never seen her brother smile so much. Arya joined them and was deep in a conversation with Lyanna about fighting and weaponry almost immediately. Sansa and Robb stepped aside.

 

"When will you wed?" Sansa asked.

 

"Tonight, if I had my way," Robb said with a sigh. "But I think we'll wait at least a few weeks. Marrying now doesn't seem appropriate. We should let the wounded heal. Lyanna and her family will stay until the wedding. Then I'll travel with them to Bear Island to visit the rest of the Mormonts before returning here with my bride." He smiled again as though he couldn't believe his luck and shook his head a little.

 

"She will make a fine Lady Stark some day."

 

"A long time from now, the gods be willing. I had not realized the burden on Father's shoulders until the war started." He shook his head again but this time in a gesture of awe. He looked at Lyanna and then back at his sister, his happiness again apparent on his face. "I'm content to let him have the job a while longer."

 

Sansa laughed and looked back at her father, who caught her eye and gestured for her to join him. Sansa excused herself and returned to the dais. Her mother was off speaking with someone else so Sansa sat in her chair and scooted it close to her father's side. He leaned toward her, taking her hand in his and covering it with his other hand.

 

"I'm glad you're home, Father."

 

Ned nodded, looking tired. "It is good to be home."

 

He released her hands and looked out at the crowd for a moment before continuing. "I would like you to help me with something tomorrow."

 

"Of course," Sansa murmured, wondering what it could be.

 

"I mean to visit the family of each man we lost. I would like you to accompany me and make a list of what each family needs. Some have sons who can help but others don't." More quietly he added, "I'll also need an estimate of the loss of manpower. Which men were performing which tasks, where we'll need to train replacements, that sort of thing. I could take Rikard with me but he has enough to do at the moment and, besides, this will require a high level of compassion. I believe your presence would be beneficial."

 

Sansa stared at him for a moment and wondered why he didn't take her mother. "Of course," she repeated. "I'll be happy to help."

 

Ned nodded. "Mid-morning, then. Best not to let this linger."

 

Sansa wanted to ask him a thousand questions but refrained. They could wait until he'd had a chance to rest. She kissed him on the cheek and looked back out at the hall. Couples had been slipping away all evening, leaving the single men and women to grow rowdier and drunker on their own. Sansa thought it high time she had the pleasure of Sandor's company. She headed down the steps and had started to thread her way through the tables when her mother caught her arm. Catelyn excused herself from conversation and said, "Sansa, has your father spoken to you about assisting him tomorrow?" 

 

"Yes. I've agreed."

 

"Good. I fear it will be a tiring day for you. Make sure you rest well tonight." 

 

"I will."

 

Sansa continued around a few more tables and, looking up, locked eyes with Sandor. As he tipped a flagon into his mouth, he gave a small shake of his head. Sansa didn't know what he was trying to convey. She paused but he merely took his drink, set his flagon down, and responded with a laugh to something one of the others said as if he'd not communicated with her. Feeling foolish, she just stood and watched as his table erupted in laughter. She was not meant to join them, apparently. She redirected her steps and, bewildered, made her way to her room.

 

Sansa decided that a more private reunion with Sandor suited her better than cackling over a flagon anyway. Though she was exhausted, she lay in bed awake for what felt like forever. Once she felt certain most of the castle was asleep, she crept through the halls and slid into Sandor's room unobserved. It was dark save for the moonlight streaming through the open windows. Sansa detected Sandor's form on the bed. He was snoring and the room reeked of wine. Tip-toeing around the bed, she looked at him in the weak light. He was sprawled on top of the covers. His chest was bare but his breeches were still on, as were his boots. The moonlight made his muscles look like marble. Desire began to lap at Sansa's insides. She laid a hand on his sinewy forearm. He made a faint, indeterminate sound but otherwise didn't stir. Sansa smiled and thought to surprise him. Randa had mentioned something lewd that Sansa had dismissed as wanton at the time but which now seemed like just the thing. Resting her knee on the bed, she slowly and carefully undid the laces of Sandor's breeches. She gently gripped his manhood and ran her hand up and down its silken length. Sandor grunted in his sleep. Once he was hard, Sansa lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Her tongue had barely started to trace over him when Sandor murmured her name. His head lolled from one side to the other and then he said, ". . . the fuck?" and was suddenly awake, sitting up, knocking her aside and then grabbing her again.

 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded in a whisper.

 

"What?" Sansa asked, embarrassed and a little miffed. "I've missed you -"

 

He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at her bleary-eyed. "I've missed you, too." He squinted as though the moonlight blinded him.

 

Sansa leaned in and kissed him and he gave in to her touch but fleetingly.

 

"I thought -" 

 

"Yes, I want to. I want you to. But -" He clutched the edge of the bed and squeezed his eye shut. "I'm drunk."

 

Sansa's heart sank. She didn't want to lecture him but it shouldn't need explaining that this was their first night in the same place in forever so, given the opportunity, of course they'd be spending some of it together.

 

He pushed off his knees and stood, tucking himself in and fastening his laces.  He reached out and pulled her into him, smelling her hair.  "Just not tonight," he murmured.

 

"Not tonight? That doesn't make any sense."

 

"If your parents knew you were here -" 

 

"But I thought you and my father -"

 

"It's best not to push him."

 

"Since when -"

 

"Please, Sansa. Don't make this harder. I want to. Just not now. It was a long trip back. "

 

There didn't seem to be a reason to keep arguing with him. She allowed him to walk her to the door. He leaned down and kissed her and closed the door quietly behind her as she crept back toward her room.

 

*

 

Sansa was slinking through the Starks' quarters when she overheard her parents talking in their room. She couldn't stop herself from pausing near their door when she heard her mother exclaim, "Why  _not_  Shireen Baratheon? You always wanted a link between our family and Robert's and now the girl will be queen. A match between she and Robb would be beneficial to our family and the north in general."

 

 

"The girl had greyscale, Cat."

 

"A few scars hardly make her unfit for marriage."

 

"Robb is taken with Lyanna. He wouldn't consider anyone else."

 

"Then why not wait? Why a hasty battlefield engagement?"

 

There was a long pause and Sansa wondered if her father was speaking too quietly for her to hear when she made out a few words in his tired voice.

 

". . . her honor. He feels bound . . ."

 

"Of all the rash, imprudent things to do. He is  _heir_  to  _Winterfell_."

 

"He knows that Cat, but he loves her and House Mormont is steadfast, faithful, and honorable."

 

"They gain more than they give."

 

"They give Robb an arsenal of skilled warriors," Ned said in a flat, tired voice. "And direct information on wildling behavior."

 

"He had that anyway with them as his bannermen."

 

Ned yawned. "Be that as it may. I'm content with the arrangement and you'll have to be, too."

 

"Perhaps Princess Shireen and Bran . . ."

 

"Between their injuries, they would be perceived as a weak pairing. No, it's true. Stannis will have to find a very strong husband for his daughter but it won't be Robb or Bran."

 

Sansa had heard enough. Tired and downcast, she made her way to bed.

 

*

 

The next day was indeed harrowing. Sandor didn't break his fast with the rest of the household. He wasn't in the yard or at the stables or anywhere Sansa looked. She didn't have much time to dedicate to her search, though, since she was to assist her father. Once they began their rounds, thoughts of Sandor fled. Visiting the grieving families was sobering. Their reactions were varied. Some sobbed, some were silent, some showed tear-stained, wobbly restraint, a few could barely contain their anger. Sansa was in awe of her father. He knew each man and was able to speak of his valiant service. He asked gentle questions and Sansa subtly noted the information he sought. It was easier for her than her father to pat hands and shed tears with the bereaved. Emotionally it was exhausting but Sansa was sincere in her wish to help and most folks responded kindly to it. The most difficult were the young widows. Small children stared with large, wet eyes, clinging to their mothers' skirts, unaccustomed to being visited by their lord. Sansa coaxed the children into talking to her, the little ones often scrambling into her lap to pat her face and grab fistfuls of her hair. The visits took longer than expected. Some families needed to reminisce about their loved one's lives. They wanted assurances that they would not be forgotten, that their children would be taken care of. Lord Stark listened to it all in his calm and thoughtful way. They weren't done until the evening and, by then, Sansa felt thoroughly wrung out.

 

"Thank you, Sansa. You were a great help," her father told her as she handed him her notes, "as I knew you would be. I could not have comforted them the way you did." 

 

"I'm sure you could have."

 

Her father gave her a weary smile. "By now I know my weaknesses. And your strengths."

 

There being no time for a nap, Sansa freshened up, changed, and joined her family for their dinner with the Mormonts. She wondered where Sandor was but didn't dwell on it, the press of people in the solar claiming all of her attention. It was difficult to move from a demeanor of respectful sympathy to one of delighted celebration but her mood lifted as the evening went on. The Mormonts were a lively, direct group. Some preliminary wedding plans were put into place and they ate and drank late into the night.

 

Sansa walked back to the family's wing with her father. Stifling a yawn, she said, "You must be exhausted, Father. I can barely keep my eyes open and I didn't just return home."

 

"Things will return to normal soon enough, the gods be willing, though tomorrow will be a busy day as well. I understand you've been helping your mother with the details for the feast. I'd like to speak with the two of you privately before it begins."

 

"Of course. Is this about the wedding?"

 

"Not Robb's wedding though that reminds me; Jeyne has asked my permission to marry this Willard she's so taken with."

 

Sansa's tired eyes shot open. "She has?!" The speed rather than the fact surprised her. 

 

"You feel it would be an imprudent match?" Ned asked, his brow contracted in concern.

 

"Oh no. I can't claim to know Willard well but he's never given me cause to doubt his decency. Jeyne's affections have certainly been steady."

 

Ned nodded and looked relieved. "I'm glad because I gave them my consent."

 

"But he's Sandor's hostage."

 

Sansa was surprised when her father chuckled. "Clegane has left the matter to me."

 

"When will they wed?"

 

"The day after tomorrow. I'm surprised Jeyne hasn't told you."

 

"So am I but, then again, I've been with you all day."

 

"That's so."

 

"It's a great pity her father isn't here."

 

"Yes but having Jeyne wed relieves me of the obligation of having her as my ward. She'll once again be in her own household. From what I've seen of him, Willard will make her a good husband. He was only too eager to pledge me his sword."

 

Sansa nodded, fatigue taking hold of her more strongly in the wake of this surprising news. "Sandor allowed that as well?"

 

"He doesn't think the reward Willard would command would be worth the hassle of negotiating his exchange, and he's right."

 

"And you accepted Willard's pledge? Though he was sworn to the Lannisters?" She tried not to sound as though she was making a broad hint.

 

"I did. Your mother thinks I've grown foolishly accommodating but, after the war I just helped win, these smaller battles hardly seem worth the fight."

 

*

 

The mood the next morning was one of excitement. It was the day of the feast, a day of celebrating heroism and looking forward to better things. The castle was bustling with preparations. Jeyne found Sansa early and gushed over her news. Sansa offered her sincere congratulations.

 

"It will be a simple wedding, nothing like Robb's is sure to be, but, oh, Sansa! I'm so happy! Your father is kindness itself!"

 

Sansa smiled. "That he is." 

 

"Clegane, too," Jeyne added more stiffly. "Willard speaks most highly of him. Indeed, without him . . . Well, it's not a day for dwelling on sadness avoided. Sansa, will you help me dress tomorrow?"

 

Sansa agreed and insisted she embroider some napkins as a wedding present despite the impossibility of them being done in time for the hasty nuptials.

 

"That would be wonderful! You do such beautiful work. You must be our first guest!" Jeyne said, squeezing Sansa's hands.

 

Jeyne's happiness was infectious and Sansa found herself grinning as she walked to the great hall. The next couple hours were spent with her mother overseeing arrangements. Before she knew it, crowds were pouring into the great hall. Tables against the back wall were buckling with casks of coins, weaponry, and the other spoils of war. As a Stark, she would be seated to the side of the dais with the rest of her family while her father spoke and Robb helped distribute the goods.

 

Sansa's back was turned when Sandor entered the hall but she sensed his presence and turned to find him looking at her. He made his way to the front.

 

"Sansa?"

 

"Yes?" 

 

"After this is over, come for a walk with me." 

 

"I'd be happy to but my father has asked to speak with me and my mother before the feast."

 

At that moment, Ned strode onto the dais. "Clegane," he said with a nod.

 

"Lord Stark," Sandor replied.

 

"Find a seat. It's time to begin."

 

Sandor looked at Sansa and wandered to a bench in the middle of the room.

 

The crowd's elation soon cooled. Everyone was still happy but the calling forward of man after man and bestowing upon him some portion of the wealth they'd accumulated quickly grew monotonous. Sansa kept her back straight and a smile on her face, clapping as each person was recognized. The men-at-arms were first, followed by the more senior warriors.

 

Finally, it was Sandor's turn. Sansa watched as Sandor's tall form cut through the crowd. Ned kept his eye on him as well and Sansa thought her father looked uneasy. Upon reaching the dais, per custom, Sandor and Ned gripped each other's right wrist as the Warden of the North acknowledged his retainer.

 

"For his valor and leadership, I grant Sandor Clegane -"

 

Sansa noticed Sandor's eyes were boring into her father's and Ned was returning his gaze unflinchingly. There seemed to be a challenge or command there.

 

"- with the gratitude and thanks of House Stark and the North," her father concluded. He rose and nodded to Robb, who collected Sandor's share of the loot and stepped forward to hand it to him with a nod and word of thanks, which Sandor returned. His arms full with a cask, a jeweled swordbelt Sansa knew he'd never wear, and some smaller items clutched in his hand, he returned to his seat, his eyes straying to Sansa.

 

She smiled at him and he nodded in return. Discreetly, Harry came forward and relieved Sandor of his spoils.

 

Several more men and women were recognized. Sansa twisted just slightly in her seat to relieve the ache developing in her back. Arya stifled a yawn next to her. They'd been at attention for the better part of two hours. Sansa was relieved when, at last, Greatjon Umber limped to the front of the hall. He was to be the last rewarded for his service.

 

The Greatjon accepted his share of the goods but then remained standing before the dais. "This is great day indeed, Ned. You have been generous."

 

This was met with cheers and shouts of agreement from those assembled.

 

"To the Mormonts perhaps most of all."

 

The crowd laughed.

 

"I say one good turn deserves another. Let's join our houses. Marry your daughter to one of my sons. Let the north grow stronger through another union."

 

He turned toward Sansa and smiled broadly, seemingly thinking he was answering her every prayer. Sansa was stricken. She heard her mother inhale sharply next to her. Ned looked uncomfortable as well. Sansa saw a chilly look pass from her mother to her father.

 

 

"My friend, if I could grant your request . . ."

 

"You can," the Greatjon boomed, looking around the room with a smile that only faltered when Ned's silence continued.

 

Ned seemed to be selecting his words with great care. "House Umber has a proud history and a fine lineage . . ."

 

"Then surely you can have no objection," Umber said with a laugh, some others joining him.

 

"Lord Stark," Sandor rumbled from the middle of the room.

 

"I certainly don't object to -" Ned began again.

 

" _Lord. Stark._ " Sandor intoned, leaning forward with a scowl.

 

"You've been heard, Clegane. I was saying, House Umber's loyalty and unstinting service deserves no less than the greatest reward but this request -"

 

"Is denied," Sandor cut in, standing, indifferent to the uproar his words created. "Lady Sansa's hand has already been promised to me."

 

"To  _you_?" the Greatjon said, turning to face him.

 

"Stay  _here_ ," hissed Catelyn with a sidelong look at Sansa.

 

Sansa couldn't have moved if she'd tried. She didn't know when she'd stood but she was on her feet. Shock rooted her to the floor and she could only gape at the three men, aware that hundreds of eyes were on her.

 

"Whoa," murmured Arya from Sansa's other side.

 

"Aye. To me."

 

The Greatjon gave a short laugh and turned toward Ned, waiting for his friend to reveal the jape.

 

Ned blew out a breath "I have agreed to a match between Lady Sansa and Sandor Clegane, it is true. I'm sorry I can't fulfill your request, Jon."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 more chapters to go, I think . . .


	37. Chapter 37

Sansa was trembling all over and couldn't breathe but she smiled, not wanting to give the impression that she was unhappy with the match, however it had come about.

 

"You're more of a plotter than I'd given you credit for, Clegane," said the Greatjon. "The honor of Lady Sansa's hand should go to a northman."

 

Murmurs of agreement rolled through the hall.

 

"Did my pledge mean less than yours? You heard our lord."

 

"Enough," called Ned before the Greatjon could respond. "Jon, I recognize the honor of your request but, after careful consideration, I have given Clegane my word."

 

Umber was frowning but eventually nodded. "I would not respect you near so much if you didn't keep to it." He turned to Sansa. "Let me be the first to wish you joy, Lady Sansa. And you, Clegane, however you managed it."

 

The Greatjon returned to his seat; the crowd watching.

 

Ned raised a hand and commanded the attention of the room. He offered no further explanation for his decision but merely said, "We all owe our thanks to the old gods for returning us home. We owe our fallen a place in our memories. And we owe our cooks the compliments of empty platters. The feast will begin in half an hour."

 

A cheer went up and benches scraped the floor as the crowd rose. Some lingered though most headed toward the doors to take their riches home. An elbow drove into Sansa's ribs.

 

"You didn't tell me you were betrothed to Clegane!" Arya accused in an undertone.

 

Sansa said, "I didn't know!" feeling foolish beyond compare.

 

Just then Sandor was in front of her. Before he could say anything, Sansa's mother joined them.

 

"Sansa. Clegane. Come with us," said Catelyn.

 

Sansa followed her mother and father off the dais. She took Sandor's arm at the bottom of the steps and left the great hall on the arm of her betrothed, grinning wildly while Sandor looked down on her, his eyes crinkling.

 

As soon as they entered the Starks' solar, Catelyn turned on them. "Clegane, you were not to say anything!"

 

"Nothing was to be gained by allowing the Umbers to think themselves fortunate -"

 

"I was making the point," Ned put in.

 

"Aye, just not quickly enough."

 

"We had an agreement, which you broke," Catelyn fumed.

 

"I  _kept_ my word. For months I've kept my word!"

 

"I would have preferred to have spared Jon the embarrassment -" Ned began.

 

"I would have preferred he kept his bloody mouth shut. ‘Lady Sansa's hand should go to a northman.' Bah! Any embarrassment is his own doing. He's had his smallclothes in a twist ever since he was too slow getting out of the way of that pike."

 

"He was wounded in my service. Adding an injury to his pride -"

 

"Again, his own doing -"

 

"Be that as it may -"

 

Catelyn interrupted, "Ned, surely now you can see -"

 

"Cat -"

 

" _Ned_."

 

"Fine. Sansa?"

 

"Yes, Father?"

 

"Sandor Clegane has asked for your hand in marriage. I am content to allow you to wed -"

 

"Ned!"

 

"Cat, we've discussed this. Sansa, I am content to allow you to wed. Your mother, as well, has acknowledged that Clegane has some qualities neither of us recognized upon early acquaintance -"

 

"That was before you approved a marriage between Robb and Lyanna Mormont," Catelyn huffed.

 

"That has nothing to do with Clegane. Sansa, I promised your hand once before, despite some reservations I had. Though the whole of Westeros might think me addled, I am more at peace with this arrangement than the former. However, I would not wrong you twice. If you do not wish to wed Clegane, you have only to say so. I can still make you a match within a noble house if you wish it." He paused. "Do you  _want_  to marry Sandor Clegane?"

 

Sansa's heart was bursting. "Yes!" she cried. "I wish for nothing more!" Tears poured over her cheeks and she leapt into her father's arms and hugged him as hard as she could, saying, "Thank you, Father. I could not be happier!"

 

Her father sighed and hugged her back. "I am glad for it," he said quietly.

 

She disentangled herself from Ned and went to her mother. "I know you hesitate out of concern but you will see. No one else could make me happy."

 

Catelyn looked unconvinced but hugged her daughter, smoothing her hand over Sansa's hair as she'd done when Sansa was a little girl. "You must know I wanted better for you," she said quietly. "I wanted what you yourself wanted." Her brow contracted in confusion and, it troubled Sansa to realize it, pain.

 

"What I wanted has changed, Mother," Sansa said in an undertone. "I would sooner become a silent sister than navigate the falseness of the court again."

 

"Well, no doubt your father would sanction that choice as well."

 

Sansa was disappointed. Much as she loved her mother, she would not allow her happiness to be cast in shade on the day of her betrothal or, at least, on the first day of which she was aware of her betrothal.

 

Sansa stepped over to Sandor. He put his arm around her. "Thank you, Lord Stark, Lady Stark. She will be safe with me."

                                                                                  

"There is the matter of his employment," Catelyn interjected. "If Sansa is truly to be wast - married to the second son of a minor house sworn to our enemies, he cannot continue to work here as a mere senior guard."

 

Ned nodded. "I've given Clegane's place here a great deal of thought and believe I have a solution that will support some other changes I'm considering. That's a matter for another day, though. For now, we must go to the feast."

 

*

 

Sansa floated into the great hall feeling taller even than Sandor. People turned and stared but their incredulity was no match for the pure, radiant joy emanating from Sansa's face, and even from Clegane's. A place had been hastily made for him on the dais. Sansa tugged him up the stairs after her. The added chair threw off the symmetry of the table arrangements but Sansa didn't care. She held Sandor's hand in full view of whoever cared to look. Sandor seemed uneasy and looked out at the crowd from under his brow.

 

"Bloody gawkers," he murmured.

 

"Let them gawk. It changes nothing." Sansa flashed a smile to the crowd in general. "Besides, it seemed to me you'd made some friends while you were away."

 

Sandor rolled one shoulder in a half shrug.

 

"You look like you've been saddled with me against your will."

 

He turned toward her. "You know better than that."

 

"They don't."

 

"Bugger them."

 

Just then Jeyne and Willard approached and offered congratulations on Sansa and Sandor's betrothal. Sansa couldn't concentrate on Sandor's exchange but thought he relaxed a little. 

 

"When will you wed?" Jeyne asked.

 

"After Robb returns," Sansa said, catching on to the first period of time that seemed likely.

 

"It will surely be a grand event."

 

"I'm looking forward to it very much." Sansa hadn't given any thought at all to the particulars and had no idea if her wedding would be grand. It had never seemed possible. Not until less than an hour ago. For a moment she felt overwhelmed. 

 

After Jeyne and Willard stepped away, more folks took their place and continued to do so until Ned signaled the food service to start. Sansa felt the eyes upon them but chose to concentrate on making Sandor comfortable. She asked after Stranger and Harry and kept up light conversation for the duration of the meal.

 

After the last of the joints of meat was picked clean and the fat began to harden on the platters, musicians tuned their instruments and the well-lubricated crowd took to the floor to dance away the nervous energy that had kept them so tightly wound during the war. 

 

Sandor would not dance but Sansa had never had a better time at a feast. It seemed as though nearly everyone in the room came to talk to them and, for the first time ever, Sansa knew what it was to be recognized as a couple with a man she was proud to call her own. She'd received her share of deference after her betrothal to Joffrey, in large part because of hoped-for favors, but now it was simply well-wishing for its own sake. There was some disbelief and some curiosity but, as a reflection of the jovial mood of the room, there was no ill will. 

 

Women Sansa knew to be ladies shocked her with ribald talk and insinuations about her impending wedding night. "He's a tall man," one woman said slyly, drawing her aside. "Rather big all over." "Don't scare her, Maudie!" another admonished. Said a third, "That face used to frighten me when you first brought him home, m'lady, if you'll pardon me for saying so, but do go forward with the bedding. It's been a while since I've seen a man muscled like  _that_." Sansa blushed clear to her forehead and stammered out demure replies while her heart hammered at already knowing the truth of it. It was odd, to be treated as a wife even though she was not yet married. The women's frankness made her feel she'd been admitted to a secret society that had been visible but unrecognized all her life.

 

When they had a moment of privacy, she murmured to Sandor, "Our betrothal has certainly made everyone free with their thoughts."

 

"Who's upset you?" Sandor rasped, glaring at the room.

 

"No one. It's just . . . no one's been commenting to you on our wedding night?"

 

" _That's_  what those hens have been clucking to you about all this time?"

 

"The men have been more circumspect?" Sansa asked, incredulous.

 

Sandor gave her a rather withering look. " _You're_  the lord's daughter and  _I'd_ tear them limb from limb if they so much as -"

 

"Well, I've already gotten one request to have a bedding so they can get a look at you," Sansa said teasingly.

 

Sandor's face screwed up in disbelief but, before he could say anything, Cley Cerwyn asked Sansa for a dance. She whirled from one partner to the next, thrilled to accept their congratulations, and seeing over their shoulders that Sandor was talking with several people. She was relieved for Sandor's sake when she saw her father join them.

 

"This has been the most wonderful day!" she gushed to Sandor later as they left the hall.

 

"It has," he agreed.

 

He walked her right to her door and kissed her good night. 

 

*

 

The feast seemed to signal the true end of the war. The Starks' bannermen poured out of the gates the next day. Sansa missed most of it, caught up as she was in helping Jeyne, who was all breathless anticipation, get ready for her wedding. Jeyne wore her best dress, a shawl that had been her mother's, and some jewelry loaned to her by Sansa. She clutched a bouquet of herbs in her sweaty palms and constantly asked, "What is the time?" Sansa laughed and assured her the ceremony couldn't start without her. Finally, by mid-afternoon, all was ready. A small group gathered in the godswood. Sansa sat behind her mother and Beth Cassel. Sandor arrived with Willard, who was whispering frantically to the taller man. Sandor made a brief comment back and took his place beside Sansa. She reached for his hand and he smiled. Just then Jeyne appeared on Ned's arm. Joy made her radiant. She floated past the assembly wearing a wobbly smile, her eyes solidly on Willard, whose apparent nerves seemed to evaporate when he saw his bride.

 

Sansa had intended to pay strict attention to the ceremony but Sandor was absentmindedly rubbing his thumb against her palm and it was heating her blood. 

 

Once Jeyne and Willard were propelled back down the aisle by their happiness and the assembly rose and made to return to the castle, Sandor murmured to Sansa, "Is that how our ceremony will be? Never seen a northern one before."

 

"Oh. Yes. I suppose."

 

His brow creased as he looked down at her. "You'd rather marry in a sept?"

 

"No, I don't think so, though that would be lovely."

 

"You surprise me, girl. I would have thought you'd had it all planned out."

 

"I used to plan my wedding regularly when I was younger."

 

"And now that you're actually betrothed you've abandoned the impulse? Don't leave it to me, girl. I'd have us marry right now. There's plenty of space in front of that tree for us."

 

Sansa giggled. "We'll be married properly on a day of our own. I will make your cloak myself."

 

"Well, make it quickly then before your mother changes your father's mind."

 

"In a rush, are you?"

 

He gave her a smoky look. "Yes."

 

"You look warm."

 

"Easier to observe than to remedy."

 

"I know a way. Besides, I believe I owe you a swim."

 

He turned and favored her with a rare grin. He squeezed her hand. "Just say when," he rumbled in an undertone.

 

She returned his squeeze. "Soon."

 

*

 

Sansa cast flirtatious looks at Sandor from across the room whenever she thought no one was looking at Jeyne and Willard's celebration. He absorbed them with a glint in his eye and his typical scowl. The scowl didn't faze her in the least. The locations of various hot springs were tumbling through her mind.

 

". . . so generous of you to host this. We really can't thank you enough, Lady Stark," Willard was saying to Catelyn on Sansa's right. "And my Jeyne tells me you even provided her with a host of lessons upon her return. I already thought Jeyne was the most beautiful woman in the world but now I'm certain no man has a wife with as many talents or charms as mine. Oh! Except for Lord Stark, of course."

 

Sansa smiled as her mother tried to respond to Willard’s effusive stream of thanks and compliments.

 

*

 

Jeyne was barely to be seen in the ensuing days but it was just as well because Sansa was often called upon to assist Lyanna or her mother with arrangements for Robb's wedding. Catelyn sniffed at how the wedding wouldn’t befit the heir of Winterfell but Robb and Lyanna were satisfied with simple arrangements. Before she knew it, Sansa was once again in the godswood, this time watching her brother and his own bride say their vows in front of the heart tree. They celebrated with a lavish meal and raucous dancing and, a few days after that, they, too, departed, Robb with a wink for Sansa and a promise to return home soon so she could marry.

 

*

 

Winterfell was emptier than it had been in years. Sansa hardly noticed. She was still cocooned in the spun-sugar sweetness of her betrothal. To everyone left, Sandor was just another member of the household. To Sansa, of course, he was the physical embodiment of the gods' goodness and she was continually beaming. Now that they were to be married and could spend time together without raising eyebrows, Sansa often met Sandor as he came off-duty and walked with him to the evening meal. This day he seemed on edge.

 

"Are you all right?" Sansa asked.

 

"Are you very hungry?"

 

"Well -"

 

"Come with me for a minute."

 

Sansa zigzagged through the castle with him until they were outside and in a small garden. Sandor gestured to a bench and she sat down. He paced back and forth, his helm under his arm, his left hand gripping and releasing and gripping again the handle of the knife in his belt.

 

Sansa waited and watched.

 

He eventually stopped pacing and started yanking on the straps of his light armor. He laid his hauberk on the ground. He placed his dog's-head helm carefully on top of it. He undid his sword belt and balanced the blade on the pile. He unstrapped his vambraces and laid them down with his knife. He straightened up and leaned back a bit as he dug deep in his pocket. Stepping over his armor, he knelt down in front of Sansa and took her hand in his. He opened his mouth but then shut it again. He looked away then looked back at her.

 

Sansa sensed he was struggling with something but, without knowing the cause, was unsure of what to say.

 

"Sansa . . ."

 

"Yes . . . ?"

 

"We're betrothed . . ."

 

"Yes . . ."

 

He pressed his lips together, stealing a glance up at her before looking at her hands again. "Your father agreed but I wanted to ask you myself . . ." He held up a ring between his index finger and thumb. Looking into her eyes, he said, "Sansa . . . As a boy, when I played at being a knight, I'd run over the fields and pretend I was defending a great lady, one who'd give me her favor at tourneys, who'd sing and play and sigh over my heroic deeds, who'd tell me I was brave and handsome and strong. She would be the fairest maiden in the seven kingdoms. I saw nothing but a golden future filled with valor and acclaim. It was horse shit." He scowled and looked away. "Instead, I grew to be a fiend. Angry. Always angry. I'd never stopped burning after I was pulled off that brazier." He looked away again and ground his teeth. He seemed to force himself to go on. "And then we came here, to Winterfell, and you were so beautiful and blind and I despised you."

 

Sansa leaned away but he seemed not to notice.

 

"You were falling into a snake pit and you were going to smile all the way down to the bottom. And then you put your hand on my shoulder. In the field. You remember." He glanced up at her and she gave a small nod.

 

"I wanted to break you. To make you open your eyes. To make you realize the pretty knights you adored were no better than the lying, stealing, raping scum they send to the Wall. I wanted you to see the world as  _I_  saw it, for what it _really_ was. But you wouldn't let me cloak you in my darkness. You, this little chirping bird, looked me in the eye and stood your ground and I couldn't hate you for it because you put your hand on my shoulder and said, 'He was no true knight,' and I knew you meant it. You meant it but you still believed, still insisted there could be goodness where I saw only filth. You were afraid of me, I knew you were, but you were braver than them all." He shook his head. "Damn it, girl, you pulled me out of one fire only to start another. Being with Joffrey was only bearable after that because I knew I'd be seeing you. You were more beautiful than ever and you were finally coming to see him for the shit he is. I thought that would have to be enough. That I would have to be satisfied with your disappointment, knowing it was for your own good. When you told me you were going to ask your father to break your betrothal to Joff, I thought I'd never see you again, that I'd just overhear the court gossips saying you'd been wed to some other unworthy lord."

 

He looked up at her. Sansa reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. He took her hand, kissed the palm, folded her fingers around the ring, and held her hand in his.

 

"And then Sevenmas came and I pulled your pin out of the bowl. I pulled it and held it and studied it and wore it. Still do." He patted the section of cloak covering his heart. "I think you pitied me then but, pathetic dog that I was, I lapped it up and looked for more. The saddle blanket you sewed for me was . . ." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was defenseless against you. Watching you sleep later that night, I realized I'd traded my loyalty for coin, wine, and a chance to kill. I was left with nothing but my contempt and it was a paltry bargain in the face of your regard. You had become the sweetest thing."

 

Sansa stared at him, mesmerized.

 

"I'm no knight but, Sansa, you're my lady love . . . . my lady wife, if you'll have me."

 

He opened her hand and Sansa looked at the ring. Set in silver, the band was encircled by small baguettes of various stones. Black onyx gave way to a deep blue sapphire which was followed by lapis lazuli, blue topaz, aquamarine, opal, diamond, and gray moonstone. The colors of the gems grew lighter and then darker as she turned the ring. "It's beautiful," she said in a broken voice.

 

"Not compared to you."

 

Sansa smiled and blinked away the gathering tears. 

 

"I will love you and protect you until my last breath. I will make you happy, little bird." He took a breath. "Will you be my wife and take me as your husband?"

 

Sansa leaned forward and whispered, "Yes," before she kissed him.

 

Sandor crushed her in his massive arms and laid his head in her lap. She stroked his hair. "I love you," she murmured.

 

He looked up at her with an expression she'd never seen before. "I love _you_." He leaned in and kissed her softly.

 

Sansa found it hard to catch her breath as Sandor slid the ring on her finger. They grinned at each other and then Sansa's stomach growled.

 

Sandor scooped her into his arms and kissed her again before setting her back on her feet. "I've kept you too long."

 

"Keep me forever."

 

Sandor smiled and picked up his armor. As they walked back into the castle, Sansa said, "You never did tell me, how did you ask my lord father for my hand?"

 

He looked down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I said, 'I want Lady Sansa's hand.'"

 

Sansa stopped and gaped up at him. "You did not. You must have said something more loving."

 

"To your father? No."

 

"Well, you must have expressed  _some_  interest in me."

 

He laughed. "There are few men who would not be interested in you."

 

"You are being coy. What did you say?" she pressed.

 

"I told him I wanted your hand and he said no."

 

“He did not!”

 

“He as good as did. He said he’d think about it. Didn’t hurry, either. Kept me waiting for days.”

 

“So what did you do?”

 

“I never had a better edge on my sword. I groomed Stranger until he took a swipe at my shin to let me know he was sick of me. I wandered around the camp taking up sparring requests from anyone stupid enough to make them. Eventually your father got around to remembering I was waiting for an answer and we took a walk one evening.”

 

“And then what?”

 

“He told me he’d given my request a lot of thought, that he’d thought about little else since I’d made it.” Before Sansa could interrupt, he held up a hand. “I didn’t say anything. I just let him talk until he was finished. He said he knew I wanted to kill my brother and that my ‘obvious desire to be a kinslayer’ troubled him. He said when he saw me choose to take Willard hostage rather than open Gregor’s throat, he felt the gods had worked a fundamental change in me.”

 

“Did they?”

 

Sandor cut his eyes down to hers. “I didn’t choose to take Willard hostage. He all but threw himself into my saddle. I was trying to knock him away at first. ‘Clegane! Clegane!’ he kept yelling, like I couldn’t hear him. He was waving his arms around like a damn fool. I recognized him well enough but I was still making for Gregor. I'd been looking for him since the war began and had missed him once. He saw me, too, and was advancing and then Willard cut between us."

 

“What happened?”

 

“Willard begged me to take him hostage, to take him back to Jeyne.”

 

A lump formed in Sansa’s throat. “And you changed your mind?”

 

“Gregor was bearing down on us. He was going to kill Willard and then take his chances with me.”

 

“What did you do? How -”

 

“I slapped Willard’s horse on the rump and told him to move. He barely got away in time. I parried the blow Gregor meant for him, grabbed Willard’s reins, and dragged him back behind our line. I left him with the Greatjon and went back to find Gregor but he was gone. I later saw him from a distance but the battle was ebbing and then it was over.”

 

Sansa clutched his forearm with her hand. “That was a generous and right thing you did, saving Willard. I’m sure he appreciates your kindness -”

 

“I didn’t do it for him.”

 

Sansa's brows contracted. "You did it for Jeyne?"

 

He chuckled. “The girl must love him to risk her honor and her safety in the baggage train just for him.”

 

“You heard about that?”

 

“Everyone heard about that. Besides, do you remember when we were coming here, the six of us, and she blamed me for her father’s death? She said it was my fault she’d left the city at all?”

 

“She didn’t mean it. She was beside herself with grief.”

 

“She meant it, little bird, and she was right.”

 

“She wouldn’t have been safe there.”

 

“No, but she would have been with Willard. It was what she wanted and he would have done his best to protect her. I ordered her to come with us in my haste to get you out of the city.”

 

The lump expanded in Sansa’s throat. “So you saved Willard to make amends with her?”

 

He took a deep breath. “I took Willard hostage because . . ." He looked away and rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. "Jeyne started burning when we left King's Landing. I thought she'd eventually forget him. I told her to, and that he'd forget her. Then she turned up in the baggage train and he was right in front of me . . ." Sandor shook his head. "I'm no Gregor."

 

"So you did it for Jeyne?"

 

"Jeyne? No. I did it for you."

 

"Me? Because I didn't want you to fight your brother?"

 

"Little bird, I was going to fight my brother and I was going to kill him and I was going to savor the warmth of his blood on my face. But I couldn't have come back here and told you I'd let Gregor kill Willard, not when I could have spared him. And Jeyne."

 

Sansa dabbed at her eyes. “And that’s what you told my father?”

 

“More or less.”

 

“Oh Sandor.”

 

He gave her an unreadable look, tucked her arm back in his, and resumed walking. “Your father said he was pleased with my choice and asked if I thought I could be a good husband to you. I said I would die trying. He said he’d made a mistake in betrothing you to Joffrey and that he would not promise your hand again until he was certain of the man’s character. I didn’t say anything so he went on and said that he’d mistaken me, too. He didn’t like to admit that you’d made your preference clear,” he smirked down at her, “but he said he would give me your hand provided your mother agreed, you agreed, and I didn’t tell anyone until a final decision had been made.”

 

"But how did you ask in the first place?"

 

"We were talking by the fire one night. Lord Stark said I'd done well with Umber's men, that he knew many of them were displeased with his decision to have me lead them. He'd expected trouble, if not rebellion, but it never came and he gave me the credit. He said he had a mind to reward me and asked what I wanted. So I told him."

 

Sansa gaped at him. "Had you been planning to ask him?"

 

"No, and I wasn't drunk, either, thanks to his rationing the wine."

 

"You weren't ever going to ask?" Sansa was a little hurt.

 

"I was. It's just not easy to catch the commander of an army in a good mood in the middle of a war."

 

“What did my mother say?”

 

“I wasn't there to find out. Your father wrote to her while you were at the Eyrie."

 

Sansa gasped. Lots of things suddenly made sense. 

 

"When I did see her, after we returned, she made certain to mention the unsuitability of the match and added that I was not to touch you until we were wed.” He grinned wickedly.

 

Sansa laughed. “She told me the same a few weeks ago, except that I'm to be on my best behavior and not succumb to any of your wanton advances.”

 

“She means to kill me before we marry.”

 

"I won't allow it. And, anyway, she didn't say I'm not to make any wanton advances toward you . . ."

 

"I'm ready for the onslaught, girl."

 

"I think I've found a place."

 

Sansa described where the hot spring was. "There's a small hunting outpost nearby. It's a bit of a ride from the castle but not so far we couldn't get there and back in a couple hours with, um, enough time in between."

 

"We'll find it," Sandor promised.

 

*

 

As soon as they could arrange it, Sansa and Sandor slipped away together in the dead of night. Stranger didn't seem pleased to be roused but picked his way through the forest without resistance. Sandor nuzzled the back of Sansa's neck and nipped at her earlobes, making her giggle. She was limited to gripping his thighs and pressing back against him. The going was slow but, despite the late hour, Sansa felt awake and alert. They eventually reached the hunting outpost, which wasn't much more than a shack. Unless a hunt was going on, it remained empty. There was a small clearing and a circle of stones for a fire near the front. The hot spring was just within sight of the back of the hut, surrounded by a thick stand of trees. They got Stranger settled and then, hand in hand, walked to the bank of the spring. Curls of fog drifted amongst the plants and across the water that gleamed with reflected moonlight.

Sandor turned to her, hunger in his eyes. They kissed and the dam between them broke. Sandor ripped Sansa's dress over her head as she tore at the laces of his breeches. Shifting, pulling, tossing and then there was just skin. The air was cool even a few feet from the hot spring, turning Sansa's nipples into firm buds. She walked through the mist and lowered herself into the deep water. "Come on," she said. The pool was several feet across and she took a few strokes to the other side, smiling at Sandor over her shoulder.

 

He followed, lowering himself into the water slowly at first but then more quickly. "It's so warm."

 

"It's always like this. It's lovely come winter."

 

Sandor swam next to her. He rested his forearms on the bank. His gaze washed over Sansa's breasts.

 

"Come here," he said as he brought her around in front of him. His stiff manhood brushed against her belly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and slid her arms around his neck and her tongue into his mouth, rolling it around his own. Sandor kneaded her arse mercilessly, aligning himself with her woman's place and making tentative thrusts.

 

"Been too long," he murmured.

 

"Mm," Sansa agreed, running her hands over his water-slicked muscles. 

 

The water had robbed Sansa of her moisture. Sandor entered her and she grunted as he held her and thrust up sharply until she had taken all of him in. 

 

"I don't think this is going to work," Sansa said, disappointed.

 

"We'll make it work," Sandor assured her. "Squeeze me." 

 

Sansa clenched around him. His deft fingers tickled her apex, making her clench again. With his other hand, he reached behind her and pressed her flesh around his shaft. She clenched again. "You keep doing that and it won't take much," Sandor all but groaned. 

 

Sansa had grown used to his visual inspection of her, believed, in fact, that his knowledge of her must surpass the combined anatomical knowledge of all the maesters in the Citadel, but she was unused to being felt so precisely. His fingers had been in her many times before, had awoken the fleshy nub of her apex and set it quivering, but he had not prodded her opening when he was there, had not manipulated her flesh to increase the sensation of her body around his manhood. But he did it all now while murmuring words of love into her ear. He focused on her apex, though, knowing full well that was the surest way to satisfy her. The fluttering of his fingers there and the unexpected exploration of the rest of her provided her with just a little wetness but she mainly stayed still, clenching and unclenching as he elicited various responses from her body. It was not the most intense climax she'd ever experienced but the waves built up into something tight and pleasing and she pulled Sandor along with her, squeezing his seed from him and holding it within herself. She wilted against him, sucking on his wet neck as he rubbed her back.

After a sleepy interval, Sandor took Sansa's hand and guided it to his manhood. She teased it to fullness but said, "I think I'm still -"

 

Sandor took her by the waist and plopped her on the bank, the cool air covering her in goosebumps. "Lay back."

 

He plunged his face between her legs and sucked on her, trying to draw forth moisture and impart whatever he could. His legs floated out behind him, the moon glinting off his muscled buttocks, the water lapping against him in time to his tongue lapping at her. Between the sensation and the sight, Sansa's parched body responded. Steam rose from her skin. Her feet and calves were in the pool but cool night air filled her nose and mouth and relieved her of any lingering sleepiness. She moaned and let her head lull back.

 

"Ready?" he asked, pushing himself out of the spring, his arms like sculpted granite in the moonlight.

 

Sansa hadn't believed she could be wet so soon but she was and accepted him easily. He groaned in relief and pumped hard into her. Her knees fell to the side. She sunk her nails into his upper arms. Her wetness was increasing rapidly and the extra lubrication set Sandor to grunting in earnest. "Yes," he said over and over. Sansa was sinking into the soft ground, the stars and moon blurred from his thrusting. He was glancing against her apex but not directly enough to bring her to completion. She tried to adjust under him but he pinned her shoulder down, lifted her arse with his other hand, and ground his hips against her, penetrating her deeply and maintaining constant contact with her most sensitive spot. He gyrated more slowly than he thrust but the direct sensation quickly overwhelmed her, causing her to cry out shamelessly, wantonly as he gave a deep, guttural grunt and spasmed to completion inside her swollen, aching woman's place.

 

Sansa lay gasping on the bank, her eyes unfocused, her body limp and sated.

 

"I love you," he murmured as he slid off to her side, pulling her against him.

 

"I love you," she said.

 

For long, wonderful moments they lay in silence, listening to the night sounds of the forest around them. Sandor slipped back into the water and swam around. Sansa sat up and watched him, amused by his seeming fascination with the hot spring.

 

"It's deeper than I thought," he said after surfacing from a dip. "And warmer."

 

Sansa joined him. He rested his head and shoulders on the bank and Sansa straddled his floating body and held on to his upper arms to keep from drifting away.

 

"Did you not ever wonder if I was child when you left for the war?

 

"I did."

 

"You never mentioned it."

 

"I knew you'd tell me if you were."

 

His practically was not the balm he seemed to think it was. "I was very upset when my moonblood came."

 

"Because you were not with child?" He seemed puzzled.

 

"Yes. A child might have been all I had left of you."

 

"That and a ruined reputation."

 

"I wouldn't have cared."

 

He scoffed. "And what if I were to get you with child now?"

 

"We'd just marry all the sooner."

 

He pulled her hips down on his. "If that's all it will take . . ."

 

Sansa laughed. "In truth, I hope to have you to myself for at least a little while."

 

"I don't see how we can avoid it for long. I plan to take up a lot of your time once you're Lady Clegane."

 

Sansa laughed again and leaned in to kiss him when a part of the forest seemed to move behind him. A whole section of darkness seemed to detach and shift. For a second she thought Stranger was walking through the trees but that made no sense. She sat up and squinted into the blackness, causing Sandor to move her aside and reach for his sword.

 

"What is it?" he asked in a low voice.

 

"I thought I saw something. Something big." An idea came to her. "Nymeria?" she called quietly. Nothing happened. "Shaggydog? Summer?"

 

There was no response but Sansa felt as though they were being watched.

 

"We'll go," Sandor said, "though I don't think that's a man."

 

Looking all around, they made haste as they dried, dressed, and returned to the shack. Sansa didn't hear anything. She stared into the woods as they made their way back. Just once she thought she saw a glint of green eyes but she heard nothing. At some point, the other presence left them and they returned to the castle and gained the stables without incident. Torches were burning low and dawn had not yet started to nudge the night away.

 

They were skirting the edge of the courtyard when they came across Nymeria laying near the doorway.

 

"Is it too warm inside, Nymeria?" Sansa asked quietly. The wolf usually slept in Arya's room, when she wasn't out hunting with her siblings.

 

Sandor bent down to ruffle her fur and the direwolf silently bared her teeth. Sandor stepped back, wary. "What's the matter, girl?" he crooned softly.

 

"Maybe she's sick . . . ?" 

 

Nymeria didn't appear to be in any discomfort so, after watching over her for a little while, they bade her good night and entered the castle.

 

Sandor thought it would be best to split up. Anyone seeing them together at this hour would have a ripe story to tell. Sansa knew he was right and had to settle for some over-the-clothes groping and kissing in the dark of the kitchen before making her way to the family's quarters and silently slipping into her room.

 

*

 

Sansa's body ached for Sandor after their foray into the woods. Privacy was not to be had and the lack of relief was distracting her. She'd bungled her stitches while sewing with the other women earlier in the day and had to pull out half her work. During her music lesson with Joanne, her concentration was poor to the point that she'd hit the wrong notes repeatedly and, once, started playing the wrong song entirely. Her mind was so far afield, she'd commented more than once on topics long after the conversation had moved on. Had she not been busy ruminating over their night at the hot spring, Sansa might have been more embarrassed.

 

As though she sensed the tension, Catelyn offered to brush out Sansa's hair one night.

 

“Sansa, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. On your wedding night –”

 

Sansa fought the urge to gag. “Mother, I’m already aware of what –”

 

“How?” her mother asked harshly.

 

“The ladies in King’s Landing were . . . they often teased me when I was betrothed to Joffrey. They were not as restrained in their conversation as my usual companions.” It was possible that that could have happened, Sansa supposed.

 

“Septa Mordane –”

 

“Was not with me every single moment. I believe I know what to expect and Sandor –” Sansa stopped talking. The topic was making her break out in a nervous sweat.

 

“Yes. Well. Be that as it may. It does not surprise me to hear Cersei Lannister’s court was unfit for a young lady of good breeding.” Catelyn cleared her throat. "Have you decided on your gown?"

 

"No, but I have an idea." Sansa gave a brief description of what she had in mind, nearly sagging with relief at the change of subject.

 

Catelyn nodded. "And the feast? Is there anything special you'd like?"

 

"Lemoncakes."

 

"And . . . Sandor?"

 

Sansa knew what it must have cost her mother to use his name but she loved her for the effort. "I don't know. I'll have to ask him."

 

"Joanne told me you and she have been considering musical selections."

 

"We have."

 

"And the guests?"

 

Sansa thought this might be her mother's primary concern. "I'll invite our Tully family, of course, and Randa and Mya but that's it from outside Winterfell."

 

"You really should send an invitation to Lysa and Robert."

 

"No."

 

"They're family."

 

"She accused me of trying to steal Lord _Baelish_ from her."

 

"You can't invite your aunt's retainers and not your aunt."

 

"Robb didn't invite them."

 

"A raven was sent explaining the wedding would take place within days. There was no time for them to travel."

 

"So send a similar message this time."

 

"News of your marriage will travel. They'll know they were slighted. It's better to invite them and hope they don't come than to snub them and prolong a feud."

 

"I'll invite Robert but not Aunt Lysa," said Sansa, knowing the compromise wouldn't work.

 

"You know very well -"

 

To Sansa's relief, a knock came at her door. It was her father, looking for her mother. They bade her good night and stepped into the hall. Hearing the murmur of their voices, Sansa curled up in her bed, her mind whirling with wedding details.

 

She and Sandor had both been measured for their cloaks. Sansa had selected the fabric for her gown but not any trim. Sansa intended to make the cloaks and her gown herself. She'd chosen her sister to attend her, despite their mother's correct assessment that it was a hopeless chore for Arya. _I'll have to make Arya's gown as well, if she's to look at all presentable. And what about her hair? What about_ my _hair?_ She wondered if it would be scandalous to wear it down, though she knew Sandor would like it. She made a mental note to find a style that could be easily let down, lest Sandor have to waste time on their wedding night picking pins out of her hair. _Hmm . . . the wedding night . . . where to spend it?_ Sansa cringed at the thought of spending it in her current room. She couldn't bear the thought of her family hearing them consummate their marriage. She supposed Sandor's current room would do but she preferred to have a suite of rooms for their permanent residence. Sansa kicked herself for not consulting with Rikard earlier. Even if a suitable suite could be found, it might not be outfitted to her taste. _I'd need bedding and drapes . . . between my gown, Arya's gown, and our cloaks, that's a lot of sewing . . ._ Of course blankets and such could always be found but Sansa really wanted to begin her married life with everything new and fresh. She knew the women of the sewing circle would help but she also knew it was likely many of them would sew gifts for her and the additional tasks of bedding and drapes would be an imposition. Someone else would have to make Arya's gown. Arya herself certainly couldn't. _If only I knew when Robb would return, then it would be easier to plan!_ Robb had been gone for a few weeks and would likely be gone for at least a few more. Still, an approximation would help.

 

Her parents' voices drifted to her from the hall. _I'll see if Father knows. Maybe then I can get some sleep._

 

Sansa padded across the room. Her hand was nearly on the door's latch when she heard her father say in a low voice, "She's not been herself lately. I wonder at the cause."

 

"Oh Ned," her mother said in exasperation. "Women know these things. She's _pregnant_ , I'm sure of it!"

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

Sansa's eyes shot open. _She can't mean_ me _!_ She stumbled back to bed and drew up her covers with shaking hands. _Are they speaking of Jeyne?_  Sansa's eyes widened even more. _Yes, that must be it . . ._  Except it couldn't be because Jeyne would have told her. Her mind ran through all the women of childbearing age in the household and came up empty. There were several for whom it would be possible but none who would also draw the notice of her father. He was an attentive lord but he wasn't  _that_  attentive. But he would notice if it was _her_. Sansa did a quick scan of her body. She didn't feel pregnant but she had no idea what that would feel like so she couldn't rule it out. Her heart began hammering in her chest. _When did I last have my moonblood?_ She gritted her teeth in frustration. Calculations were always difficult for her but never more so than in her head while trying to suppress panic. It was possible. It was possible and . . . oh no! What if she _was_ with child? The thought made her giddy. No. No. She'd know. She felt sure she'd know. She could not be so obviously with child that her mother would detect it before Sansa herself was aware. She took several deep breaths. No, it had to be Jeyne. Nothing else made sense. But the nagging thought that she and Sandor had been reckless kept her up late into the night.

 

The next morning Sansa dressed in record time and bolted from her room. _A lady does not sprint._ She forced herself to slow to a decorous walk as she took the most direct route to the great hall in search of her friend. The sooner she confirmed the pregnant party, the sooner she'd be relieved.

 

"Jeyne!" Sansa called when she saw her friend near the kitchens.

 

Jeyne turned with a smile and greeted her.

 

"Congratulations! I heard the good news!"

 

Jeyne flushed. "What do you mean?"

 

Dread robbed Sansa of her assurance. "You're pregnant. Aren't you?"

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"Oh!" Sansa goggled at her friend. "I'm sorry. I heard my mother say something and I'm afraid I misunderstood -"

 

"Your mother? But how would _she_ know?"

 

"I beg _your_ pardon?"

 

"Lady Stark knows I'm pregnant?"

 

" _Knows_?"

 

"Thinks?"

 

Sansa shook her head. "I'm more confused than ever!"

 

"As am I! Your mother told you I'm pregnant?"

 

"Well, no, not exactly . . ."

 

"But how would she know?"

 

"Know what?"

 

"That I'm pregnant!"

 

"You are?"

 

"You just said so!"

 

"In error!"

 

Jeyne laughed. "You are not in error. How your mother knows, I can't imagine, but she is correct."

 

Sansa's eyes shot wide. "Jeyne!" She hugged her friend hard but then jumped away, afraid of hurting her in her fragile state. "How are you feeling?"

 

"A little queasy but nothing like being on that godsforsaken boat."

 

"Ginger tea might help anyway."

 

"Oh, it does. I have some every morning."'

 

"Jeyne, this is wonderful!"

 

"But how did your mother know?"

 

Sansa opened her mouth but no reasonable explanation came forth. "I don't know. I overheard her say something to my father and I just assumed -"

 

"Well, I suppose after five children one recognizes the signs . . ."

 

"Yes. That must be it. Oh, Jeyne, I'm so sorry to have intruded on your privacy! I just thought, if my mother knew . . ."

 

Jeyne smiled and placed her hands on her still-flat belly. "Willard and I couldn't be happier but we haven't told anyone else just yet and don't intend to for another moon."

 

"I won't say a word. I promise."

 

Jeyne nodded. "Perhaps Lady Stark meant someone else."

 

"Who?"

 

"Well, surely not Arya or Beth."

 

"No. Had it been any of us, she would have sounded angry."

 

"Maybe you should just ask her."

 

Sansa nodded but knew she wouldn't admit to eavesdropping. Instead she peppered Jeyne with questions and found out the little one was expected in seven moons or so, which told Sansa Jeyne had gotten pregnant right around the time she'd gotten married. She was excited for her friend but had promised not to say anything. Still, the secret made her happy and lightened her steps as she moved through the castle. For purely irrational reasons, Sansa also felt that if Jeyne was indeed pregnant than she herself most likely was not.

 

*

 

"What were you and Jeyne talking about so secretively a minute ago?" Arya asked as she dropped into the chair next to Sansa's.

 

"Nothing."

 

Arya gave her a look as she reached for the preserves.

 

"I've got something to tell you, though. I'm worried about Nymeria. I think she might be sick. She bared her teeth at Sandor last night. That's not like her at all."

 

"I know. He told me first thing this morning." Arya said, slathering preserves thickly on her toast. "We took a look at her along with Father, Hullen, and Farlen."

 

"Hullen and Farlen? She's not a horse or a dog."

 

"Well, we don't have a master of direwolves, do we? Anyway, she's not sick. She's going to have pups!"

 

"WHAT?? How??"

 

Arya shrugged. "Rickon said there's a big black wolf around but I haven't see it."

 

"I have! Twice!" Sansa said without thinking.

 

"When?" Arya asked through a mouthful of toast.

 

"Once when we were nearly home and again the, uh, other night. I wasn't sure this last time, though. I just thought I saw something big in the dark. With green eyes."

 

"Rickon mentioned green eyes, too. I half thought he was making it up." Arya didn't seem that interested in the pups' parentage. "Hullen thinks the pups will be born in another moon or so. It's hard to tell. No one's ever seen a pregnant direwolf before. Won't it be so much fun, though?! Remember when Jon first found ours and -" Arya suddenly seemed to realize this might not be a happy memory for Sansa, what with Lady being gone. She closed her mouth to finish chewing.

 

"We should make her a proper bed," Sansa suggested.

 

Arya enthusiastically agreed and, after they finished eating, the sisters scoured the keep looking for a basket large enough to hold Nymeria. None could be found so they took several large baskets to Arya's room and cut the sides from all but two of them. They secured the baskets together with ribbon, the cut round baskets creating a scallop shape. Arya stole some pillowcases from the laundry and stuffed them with hay while Sansa threaded more ribbon through the edges of the bed and decorated the middle with a large bow. Arya brought Nymeria to her room and showed her the bed. The direwolf sniffed at it, prodded the padding tentatively with a massive paw, and then laid down and closed her eyes.

 

"She likes it!" Arya exclaimed.

 

Sansa nodded as she looked at Nymeria's round belly, wondering how she hadn't noticed it before.

 

*

 

The days went by and Sansa sewed until her fingers cramped and her vision blurred. Despite offers of assistance from the women in her sewing circle, Sansa wanted to do most of the work on her own. It had not escaped her notice, either, that some of the women exchanged appreciative looks when Sandor had finally been cajoled into his fitting. He stood straight and glared at the opposite wall as if he'd like nothing more than to bang his head against it as Sansa stood on a stool and measured the breadth of his shoulders. She'd read the numbers off the measuring tape as matter-of-factly as she could but even she heard the slight breathlessness in her voice.

 

Sandor insisted she was working too hard, a fact made much of by the ladies, but Sansa's needle continued to fly through the fabric. She completed his cloak first. Catelyn quietly but firmly told Sansa that she would be sewing her daughter's bridal cloak so Sansa moved on to her own gown. She'd selected a style with clean lines so putting it together was fairly simple but even she had to admit Greta's bead work was superior to her own and handed over the gown to her for completion.

 

Some of the women teased Sansa about her haste, joking they'd sew loose seams so as not to delay the bedding, but Sansa only smiled demurely and returned to her work. Robb had been gone long enough. She wanted to be ready.

 

*

 

The night's stillness was broken by a piercing cry. Sansa shot bolt upright in bed. The sound came again and Sansa realized it was Nymeria. She threw on a robe and dashed to Arya's room, nearly colliding with her father in the hall. They burst into Arya's room and found her cradling her wolf's head and talking softly to her. Catelyn came in behind them.

 

"Take her to the stables," Catelyn ordered.

 

"No!" Arya said with a glare.

 

"The carpet -"

 

"It's too late to move her," Ned said quietly, approaching. "Get Hullen. Have him bring Farlen."

 

"I'll go," Sansa volunteered.

 

"You will not!" Catelyn huffed. "You're not dressed and to be entering the bedchambers of -"

 

"I'll go," came a rough voice from behind.

 

"Yes, Clegane, you go," Catelyn said with a dismissive wave. "And tell them to bring some straw!"

 

Sansa had barely registered his presence before he was off. Not knowing what to do, she perched herself on the edge of Arya's bed and pitied the animal before her. Nymeria's head was lolling to and fro and her cries had fallen to gut-wrenching whines. Sansa reached out to pet her but somehow sensed her touch would not be welcome just then. Her father was on his knees, gingerly pressing the wolf's belly, while Arya smoothed her pet's ears and murmured words of encouragement. Catelyn paced. It felt like forever before Sandor returned with the two other men. Sansa noticed none of them had brought straw. The men all got down on the floor. Sansa couldn't see much but got the impression from their quiet tones that they were planning to proceed as if Nymeria was any typical domestic animal.

 

"What's going on?" Bran asked sleepily from the doorway. Rickon appeared next to him a moment later.

 

"Nymeria's having her pups," Catelyn said as she moved to them. "She'll be fine. Let's get you back to bed."

 

"I want to stay," Rickon said.

 

"No." Catelyn ushered them into the hall and closed the door behind her.

 

For a long while nothing happened except that Nymeria seemed to be in an awful amount of pain.

 

"This is taking a long time . . . Is she going to be all right?" Arya asked with a nervous edge in her voice.

 

Rapid assurance came from all quarters. Sandor added to Arya's soothing monologue, stopping only to quietly ask Sansa to bring some cloth and water to the room.

 

Sansa wasn't sure how long it took for the pups to be born but, in the end, there were six. Arya cheered. The men, once Nymeria let them, examined the pups and found all to be healthy. It wasn't until Sansa realized none of the pups looked like Lady that she realized she'd been hoping one might. Still, she couldn't get over their cuteness. Sandor put one in the cloth in her lap and she gently cleaned it before placing it beside its mother. The pups quickly began to suckle and Nymeria rolled to her side, exhausted.

 

"Never thought I'd see that," commented Hullen.

 

"Nor I," agreed Farlen.

 

Except for Arya, who never abandoned her post on the floor, they were all standing in a semicircle around Nymeria's basket. Sandor put his arm around Sansa's shoulders and she leaned into him, feeling the long night to her bones. "You should get back to bed," he murmured quietly. "She's fine now. Nothing to do but let her care for her young."

 

"Clegane's right," her father said. "I thank you all for your help."

 

"Me, too!" Arya chimed in, reaching over Nymeria's neck to run the backs of her fingers over one of the pups.

 

Sansa nodded but didn't move. Hullen and Farlen bid everyone a good night and left. "I'll help you clean up," Sansa said to Arya.

 

"There's not much to do," her sister answered. It was true. Somehow the men had already taken care of it.

 

Sansa covered her mouth as she yawned. She really was very tired. "If you're sure . . ."

 

"Go to bed, Sansa," her father said. "You've done enough for tonight."

 

"Will you ask mother to tell my maid not to come tomorrow, well, this morning? I'll break my fast in my room later."

 

"I'll tell her."

 

"Thank you."

 

Sansa nodded and made her way to the hall. She opened her door and then, inspiration striking, closed it again before dashing off on her tip-toes to Sandor's room.

 

Breathless but exhausted, Sansa dropped into his bed. Not long thereafter she heard him come in and give a small chuckle when he realized she was there. He washed up quickly, stripped off whatever he'd thrown on to get to the family's quarters, and rolled into bed beside her. She turned toward him, felt his arms go around her, and sunk into a deep sleep.

 

*

 

Sansa leaned against the railing with her father and watched as Sandor, Ser Rodrik, and some of the men-at-arms oversaw the younger boys' sparring. Ser Rodrik's arm was still healing and Maester Luwin had it bound in a sling. It was unclear how much use of it he would regain. Still, Ser Rodrik shouted out directions to the boys and was largely ignored by Rickon who insisted on swinging his wooden sword around wildly. The other boys were glaring at him with resentment.

  
"Rickon, enough," Ser Rodrik called.

 

"I don't want to learn how to fence. I want to learn how to fight!"

 

Sandor stepped forward. "Show me how you fight, then."

  
Rickon's eyes grew big and he immediately lunged into an attack. Just as quickly, Sandor dumped the boy onto his backside. Over his shoulder he said, "You have a lot to learn. Get back in line."

 

Rickon glared at him and then threw himself bodily at Sandor's retreating form. Sansa gasped and was about to call out but Sandor merely drew back his elbow and let Rickon bounce off it.

 

"That boy," muttered her father.

 

Sandor turned around and looked down on Rickon with surprise. "Little lord Rickon. What are you doing down there?"

 

Sansa knew Rickon's pride would be badly hurt but she was more concerned about his ungovernable temper.

Rickon stalked back to the line of boys and ignored the chuckles of the men-at-arms. Ser Rodrik continued as if there had been no outburst.

 

"We love Rickon, Father, but no one else will if he continues on this way."

 

Her father heaved a great sigh. "Sansa, it is time I put a great many things in order."

 

Just then Gendry came stamping along the perimeter of the yard with Arya at his heels.

 

"Here's one situation I've let go on too long. Gendry!" He motioned for him to come inside and Sansa and Arya trailed along after them to the solar.

 

"Gendry," Ned began, "I've been overdue in communicating to you -"

 

"Lord Stark, I thank you but -"

 

"You can't let him leave, Father!"

 

"Leave?" Ned turned his eye back to the young blacksmith.

 

"That's what he was just telling me!" Arya fumed.

 

"He is not a hostage, Arya, he can leave if he wishes."

 

"Isn't that what you were about to tell me, m'lord? That the war's over and since you've got Mikken you won't be needing me, too?"

 

"No, I wished to talk to you about another matter entirely. Something I should have addressed much earlier."

 

Gendry's eyes darted to Arya and then dropped to the floor.

 

"We can discuss your employment later -" Ned began.

 

"Why did you keep him here all this time?" Arya demanded. "Why did you spare him from the Night's Watch only to send him away now when he has nowhere else to go?"

 

"Because the boy is not just a smith's apprentice," Ned said wearily. He looked at Gendry. "There is no easy way to tell you this. You are the son of Robert Baratheon."

 

Gendry's jaw swung open.

 

Sansa felt sure her eyes would pop from their sockets. He'd reminded her of Lord Renly when she'd first encountered him. It seemed forever ago now, that chance meeting in the woods with Yoren, Jack, and the others. 

 

Arya dropped into a curtsy. "My _lord_ ," she said with a wide, wicked grin.

 

"Stop that," Gendry muttered. "So what did you mean to do with me, Lord Stark?"

 

Ned's brows grew together. "Do with you? Nothing, aside from keeping you safe until you could be told of your parentage."

 

"He has a claim to the throne," Arya pointed out.

 

"I don't want the throne," was the grumpy response. Sansa couldn't blame him. It was a lot to take in.

 

"Not as a bastard," said Ned bluntly. "Stannis sits the Iron Throne and there he'll stay. If you want to challenge him, you'll need an army you don't have and allies it will take you a very long time to win."

 

Gendry glared at the floor. "So why tell me at all?"

 

More softly, Ned said, "Robert was a friend. I couldn't just send his son off to the Wall without at least telling you of your lineage."

 

"I thank you, Lord Stark," Gendry said and abruptly walked out.

 

Arya just stared after him. "Now what?"

 

"Now the boy decides his path. He can stay. Or go. But if he wants to challenge Stannis for the throne, he'll do it without me."

 

"Why didn't you tell him before?"

 

"Wait a minute," Sansa cut in, something else rising to the surface of her memory. "How long have you known him? Certainly before we encountered him in the woods on our way home. You called him by name then."

  
Arya's eyes grew wide. "That's right! You did!"

 

"I'd first met him in King's Landing in Tobho Mott's shop. I had reason to believe he was one of Robert's." Before his youngest daughter could interrupt again, he added, "I didn't tell him then because Cersei would have tracked him down and had him killed. It was better his existence remained unknown, though Varys detected it first and arranged his apprenticeship. I only discovered the truth when I began investigating Jon's death. It was purely the gods' will that we crossed paths with Yoren after that, though the Wall wouldn't have been such a bad destination for the boy."

 

"Of course it would have!" Arya exclaimed.

 

"Arya, it might have been better. Knowing who his father was may only torment him," Sansa suggested quietly.

 

Ned added, "He was upset to be driven out by Tobho Mott, which is reasonable given his talent. He had a right to know why. Maybe I should have told him before the war but he knows now and, once he's had a chance to calm down, I'll talk to him again and explain everything. Then he can stay here and help Mikken or he can move on."

 

"You should make him stay!" cried Arya.

 

"You seem to have taken a keen interest in that boy's affairs," Ned observed coolly.

 

Arya closed her mouth and rocked back on her heels. "We're friends."

 

Ned looked skyward and muttered an oath.

 

*

 

"You don't seem very concerned that Father thinks you're wildly in love with Gendry," Sansa observed a few days later as she made herself comfortable on Arya's floor. She smiled as she looked down at the pups. They were growing fat and wiggly, their little snouts capped by adorable button noses. She laughed when one of them suddenly sneezed and then, surprised, barked and looked around at its siblings.

 

"Why should I be?" Arya asked. "Gendry's the son of his best friend."

 

"Gendry's one of many bastards of his best friend, of whose faults we became all too dangerously aware," Sansa said as gently as she could.

 

"That's not Gendry's fault."

 

"No, but it might help if he were a little less . . . sullen."

 

"Says the one marrying the Hound. Father and he have talked. They get on fine. Gendry's not mad at Father and Father said he could stay."

  
"Is he going to?"

 

"For now, at least."

 

"So what are you going to do?"

 

Arya shrugged. "We'll see what happens."

 

Sansa wasn't surprised at her sister's ease and instead turned her attention to a grey puffball that was trying to scamper into her lap.

 

*

 

When they were weaned, Nymeria began to take the young direwolves one by one into the woods. Arya, of course, had wanted to keep them all but Ned said, with no little relief, that their mother knew best and to let her manage her pups. Sansa was sad to see them go. Arya didn't seem to mind when Nymeria sat by Sansa's side but Nymeria was not _hers_. Therefore it was unexpected when Nymeria came into the solar without Arya and whined and nudged at Sansa's side.

 

"What is it, girl?" Sansa said, ruffling the direwolf's fur and looking across the room at Sandor with questioning eyes.

  
Nymeria tugged at the hem of Sansa's gown and then turned and barked at Sandor.

"She wants us to follow her," he said.

 

They did, and Nymeria led them to Arya's room. In the basket were the last two pups. Nymeria took one in her mouth, a silvery female, and deposited her at Sansa's feet. Then she nudged the other pup toward Sandor. It was a male whose coat was pure black on top but a spotless white underneath. The pup bared his little teeth, wiggled his hindquarters, and promptly attacked the toe of Sandor's boot. Sandor laughed and scooped him up with his big hands. "This one's a fighter," he said, clearly delighted by the pup's scrappy personality.

  
Sansa knelt down and took the other pup in her arms. "Do you mean for them to be ours?" she asked Nymeria.

 

The wolf barked and bumped her nose against Sansa's shoulder. Sansa hugged her and said, "Thank you."

 

"My thanks," added Sandor as he reached down to pet Nymeria while trying to prevent her son from chewing on his tunic.

  
Nymeria gave a few motherly licks to each of her babies and then returned to the basket. She circled a few times and then lay down with an air of exhausted satisfaction. Sansa smiled and she and Sandor left the direwolf to enjoy having her bed to herself for the first time in weeks.

  
*

 

Sansa and Sandor strolled through the corridors of the castle with their new pets. Sansa cradled hers like a baby. Sandor's ran wildly up and down the halls, yipping excitedly but turning often to make sure Sandor was still behind him.

  
"He's going to be difficult to train," Sansa commented, suppressing a smile at the way Sandor was beaming at his wolf.

  
"No. Time and patience, that's all it takes." He glanced at the ball of fuzz in Sansa's arms. "Yours will be another Lady for sure. What are you going to call her?"

 

Sansa looked down at the wolf. Her fur was gray at the base but then faded into a light silver and was almost white at the tip. She was beautiful and shimmery.

 

"I'm not sure. Maybe I should name her after her mother and Arya for sharing her with me."

 

"Nymarya?" Sandor said in a dubious tone.

 

Sansa laughed. "No, maybe not. Maybe Beauty?"

  
Sandor considered that. "She does have a nice coat."

 

Yet it didn't feel right to Sansa. She was beautiful but she was something more, too. "I think her name is Song. Song of Steel."

 

"Because you like to sing?"

 

“Because she's as beautiful as a song but strong, too, and her coat looks like polished steel.”

 

Sandor smiled down at her. They both turned away as Sandor's pup growled at a door but then squeaked and retreated to safety between Sandor's feet as a startled servant entered the hall.

 

Sandor picked up the wolf and playfully rubbed his knuckles over the pup's belly. "He has distinct markings. I like them."  


"What will you name him?"

 

Sandor chuckled. "Turncloak."

 

"No! He's as faithful as can be, I can tell!"

 

"Help me name him then."

 

Sansa thought hard. What name could possibly fit the pet of a man like Sandor? After a long moment she suggested, "Valor?"

 

" _Valor?_ "

 

"Don't all the Cleganes have names that end in -or?"

 

"My mother didn't."

 

"She didn't start life as a Clegane."

 

Sandor laughed. "True enough. Though it seems unfair to give him such a name before he's earned it."

 

"Well, you like his markings. Maybe something about that."

 

Sandor tilted his head in consideration.

 

"How does he make you feel?" Sansa prompted.

 

"Lucky, just like you do."

 

Sansa smiled. "'Lucky' is a nice name."

 

"Just Luck, I think. Goes better with his split markings."

 

"I like it."

 

"Luck!" Sandor called as his wolf began to gnaw on the leg of a chair. The pup's ears immediately perked up and he bound back down the hall toward them. Sandor laughed, "Luck it is."

 

So Sansa and Sandor continued walking along together, she holding Song to her heart while Luck nipped at their heels.

 

*

 

With a pup to train, Sansa told the women of the sewing circle, she had no choice but to call upon their generosity to complete some of her wedding tasks. To Sansa's relief, if not her surprise, the ladies readily accepted and declared themselves honored to assist with their lady's wedding clothes. Once the self-imposed obligation was gone, she wished she'd done it sooner for she greatly enjoyed her time with her pup. Also, watching Sandor and Luck together gave her a simultaneous glimpse at what she supposed Sandor was like as a young boy and what she imagined he'd be like as a father. He was firm yet gentle and loving and quick to reward good behavior. Luck had a zest for freedom that warred with his desire to please his master. He'd bound off to go hunting with his mother and siblings but only after whining and nudging Sandor's hand for some pats and a word of encouragement. Song, on the other hand, was possessed of a docility more usually displayed by the house cats lolling on the sun-warmed stones of the garden than a direwolf. She seemed to sense Sansa's mood and complied without much more than a word from her mistress. So, for Sansa, at least, training amounted to daily walks with her pet, teaching her where she was welcome to go in the keep, and allowing her to grow accustomed to the various people they encountered. Sansa smiled whenever someone referred to her pet as “Lady Sansa’s Song.” Gentle though she was, Sansa knew Song was a wolf through and through. She could feel the steel in her as surely as she'd come to know it within herself. 

 

*

 

"The training seems to be going well," Ned observed soon thereafter as he ruffled Song's coat.

 

"Aye," Sandor said. "Lady Sansa has done a fine job with her."

 

"I'd say you've had more to do than me," Sansa laughed, watching as Luck restrained himself from jumping at her father in excitement. 

 

Sandor gave a quick whistle and Luck moved to his side. 

 

Ned shook his head in amusement and ruffled Luck's fur, too, nearly sending the wolf into fits of joy. "I wasn't pleased when I learned Nymeria was pregnant but," he shrugged, "you've both done well."

 

"Thank you, Father."

 

"My thanks, Lord Stark."

 

"I mean that in the larger sense as well. Clegane, you've done everything I've asked of you and more. After your betrothal to Sansa was announced, I told you I'd given your place here a great deal of thought. I believe I've come up with a plan that will work well for everyone. I'd like to discuss that with both of you."

 

Sansa's heart skittered.

 

"When?" Sandor asked.

 

"Now," Ned replied. "Lady Stark is waiting for us in the solar. She needs to be apprised, too."

 

*

 

"And so," Ned concluded after delineating Sandor's leadership capabilities and efficiency on the battlefield, "with Ser Rodrik wounded, possibly beyond the point of a full recovery, we may need a master-at-arms -"

 

"Absolutely not," Catelyn declared. "Ser Rodrik sustained those wounds in defense of Sansa and myself. To strip him of his stature merely so -"

 

"Fine. I thought you might object. As it happens, I have a second idea. Clegane, I understand Arya has requested dagger training lessons from you."

 

"She has."

 

"And I understand from Lady Stark that you took it upon yourself to train Sansa in the use of a dagger while we were in King's Landing."

 

"I did."

 

"Before his fall, Bran dreamed of being a knight -"

 

"I'm no  _ser_ , Lord Stark -"

 

"No, but you have the same knowledge and training as a knight. Rickon, as you already know, has grown wild from neglect but will need to be of reliable service to this house."

 

"What are you saying, Ned?" Catelyn asked.

 

"I'm saying, if he agrees, I will put Clegane in charge of the education of our children -"

 

"You need a wet-nurse, not me -" Sandor began.

 

"Maester Luwin -" interrupted Catelyn.

 

"Their  _martial_ education. You will be personally responsible for their training, including Bran's." Ned turned back toward Catelyn. "Ser Rodrik will retain his post as master-at-arms but Clegane will oversee our children exclusively in terms of arms, horsemanship, trapping, strategy, intelligence, leadership in the field, and so on. You will," Ned said, turning back toward Sandor, "of course, serve me and, when the time comes, Robb, should you be needed in battle. For now, though, I believe a more instructive role would suit you and your strengths." He looked at Catelyn again. "I believe this would be seen as sufficiently prestigious such that our people would not view Sansa's marriage as a degradation. No one would be displaced so we'd avoid any complaints from within the household."

 

"Ser Rodrik would have cause to complain. To imply he's no longer of value, no longer good enough to train the Starks . . ."

 

"Ser Rodrik is as well aware of his capabilities and limitations as a man can reasonably be expected to be. However, in deference to your concern, perhaps Ser Rodrik and Clegane can be equals in arms training."

 

"Why do you believe this specialized training is necessary at all?" Catelyn asked. "Surely you can expect the loyalty and protection of King Stannis after your service on his behalf."

 

"I believe it is better to rely on ourselves. I trusted Robert far too much and he was an old friend. Stannis will have much with which to contend: wildlings, this Targaryen girl across the sea, Wights and Others if the rumors are true."

 

"Lord Robb has married into a family of warriors," Sandor commented. "Some may see that as an attempt to consolidate the north and make an eventual play for the throne."

 

Sansa beamed at his intelligence though Catelyn scowled.

 

"Yes, there is the distant future to think of as well," Ned said. "I fear Robb's focus will be very much external. Lyanna is well suited to help him meet those challenges. Though an intelligent, energetic girl, I believe domestic concerns are not her interest. Sansa, you may correct me if I'm in error, but I believe you would enjoy running a keep. I believe Robb would be grateful to have you assist him with managing his people and the affairs of his household. You have a talent for talking with anyone. Clegane's efforts would prepare our family to defend Winterfell to the last. Yours would sustain us from within."

 

"Well, yes, of course I'd be happy to help Robb. I'm not much good with numbers but with my lady mother's guidance -"

 

"So you accept then?" her father asked.

 

"Of course, Father -"

 

"Clegane," he immediately went on, "will you serve in the capacity I've suggested?"

 

"I will."

 

Ned exhaled. "Then I thank you both."

 

Sansa had just taken Sandor's arm to leave when her mother said, "You may as well tell them the rest of it, Ned."

 

Sansa felt Sandor straighten up next to her. "The rest of what?"

 

"We've settled enough for one day," her father said.

 

Sansa's eyes ricocheted back and forth between her parents. Her mother's stern look prompted her father to go on.

 

"I'm sorry, Sansa, but, due to some plans I've put into effect, your wedding must be delayed a little longer."

 

"But why? Robb should be back any day now."

 

"I've sent Robb to the capital."

 

"Whatever for?!"

 

"To meet King Stannis. To bend the knee. I'm abdicating my claim to the north."

 


	39. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at last. :-)
> 
> To everyone who's left kudos - thank you!
> 
> To everyone who's taken the time to comment - your feedback has kept me going and, in fact, improved this work. Knowing you were out there meant I could never offer less than what I felt was my best effort. Thank you so much for hanging in there through the long waits and sticking it out until the end. I hope you'll enjoy the conclusion as much as I've enjoyed writing it for you.
> 
> And now, without further ado . . .

"Father, why?" Sansa all but shrieked. She'd never known and couldn't imagine another Warden of the North. She'd always known Robb would inherit the title one day but one day was far in the future, years and years from now, not pending the end of her brother's current travels.

 

"Lord Stark, are you certain you want to do this?" Sandor asked, his brow furrowed, his voice just short of being incredulous.

 

"Mother, he's hit his head. Call for Maester Luwin. He can't mean it."

 

"Sansa, I do mean it. Please don't think I'm entering into this lightly. I've thought of little else since the war, since Robert asked me to serve as Hand, since Brandon died. It's been a thought, a wish, in the back of mind for many, many years." He spread his hands wide. "This was never meant for me. I've never thought of myself as a natural leader and, as recent events illustrate, I've no skill for political intrigue. No taste for it, either. I'm doing what I think is best for my family, for Winterfell, for the north, and for myself. I believe the time will never be better to make this transition. If there should be another war, Robb will inspire his men better than I ever could. I will advise him as long as I'm of use and he'll benefit from Clegane's experience as well. I hope this peace will last, truly, but, if it doesn't, I'm not the man to helm the north."

 

Sansa was so shocked that her jaw began to tremble and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "Mother?"

 

Catelyn had been standing with pursed lips and clasped hands. "I know you're surprised. I was, too, when your father initially proposed this idea to me. In truth, I was not in favor of it but then I received a raven from Riverrun and I changed my mind. Your grandfather Tully's health has started to decline. It's my wish to be with him when he passes. No, no, don't get upset. It's not expected imminently but it's unlikely his mind will improve."

 

Sansa could only nod. 

 

Sandor asked, "When will you leave?"

 

"After Robb has returned and you wed," Ned answered.

 

"And then you'll come back, after . . .?" Sansa asked.

 

"Yes," Catelyn said, going to her and taking her hands.

 

Sansa took a few deep breaths. She would not be deprived of her parents' support immediately. That soothed her. The idea of she, Sandor, Robb, and Lyanna managing Winterfell on their own felt like children playing at come-into-my-castle. It was too much, too soon but, if she was overwhelmed, she could only guess at what Robb must be feeling. A glance at Sandor told her he was wary but not alarmed and that bolstered her as well.

 

"We wouldn't just leave you," Catelyn assured her with a smile and a squeeze of her hands.

 

After she and Sandor left the solar, Sandor put an arm around her shoulder. "You're worried," he said in a low voice.

 

"You're not?"

 

"With  _you_  here to protect me?" he smiled down at her. "No, I'm not worried."

 

Sansa laughed in spite of herself.

 

*

 

Ned declared his intention to abdicate first to the household and then to the larger population at Winterfell. Sansa could see they were as shocked as she'd been, and rumors began to circulate as to her father's health, but even these eventually hushed as the Warden of the North remained as hale and hardy as he'd ever been. Once the surprise of her father's declaration passed, life returned to its normal busy pace. Sansa completed the gown Arya would wear to the wedding. Final adjustments were made to her own gown. Catelyn finished the bridal cloak. Robb still had not returned so, having exhausted other wedding details, Sansa began leisurely work on curtains, bedding, and other household fare. She and Sandor had selected rooms in one of the towers and Sansa had given Rikard specific instructions as to furniture placement. Weather and availability would determine the final arrangements for the food as well as the flowers. Sandor continued to sabotage his dance lessons by kissing and otherwise distracting Sansa but favored her with a soft look of appreciation when he heard the musical arrangement of "My Knight" that she had devised for their first dance. They had each japed that Robb's presence was not necessary for them to say their vows but Sansa desired his company as her brother and Sandor insisted upon it as his future lord. There was nothing to do but wait and work.

 

*

 

Even before Sandor had officially been named the Starks' martial tutor, he began an assessment of their skills. Rickon's resentment from Sandor's previous setting-down of him in the yard made him churlish but Sandor refused to rise to any of Rickon's bait and eventually the boy came to trust what the seasoned non-ser was telling him. At that point, Rickon's anger melted away and he began to absorb, at an unbelievable rate, the lessons Sandor was trying to impart to him. In fact, Rickon flung himself into the training with a vigor that surprised his eldest sister. Once Rickon understood the point of various moves, meaning he appreciated the damage they'd inflict, he was able to execute them well, if wildly. His judgment of when to act and when to refrain proved harder to hone.

 

"You need to learn to listen, boy."

 

"Father said you're to train me to be in charge. I don't need to listen. Others will listen to  _me_."

 

"Robb will be in charge. How do you think men will react if he can't even command his own brother?"

 

"I won't always be with Robb. I'll have men of my own."

 

"No one needs self-control more than a leader."

 

"Rickon -" Sansa interjected.

 

"Talking won't help, little bird. He's going to have to see for himself."

 

*

 

Arya could barely contain her enthusiasm for training and then her irritation when Sandor stated that she lacked control.

 

"Con _trol_?" she spat. "I'm as still as a serpent!"

 

"Forget that water dancing nonsense."

 

"It's not nonsense." She took a swipe at his thigh that was instantly deflected. "You just don't like it because it looks nice."

 

"And you like it because it  _does_?" He cast a long glance over her tousled hair, smudged face, and rumpled clothes.

 

"I like it because it uses the mind and not just brute force."

 

"Brute force is a sign of desperation. Remember? I told you that when we began using the daggers -"

 

"I remember -"

 

"And, anyway, I wasn't saying you lack control of your sword."

 

Arya's lip twisted into a look of conciliation.

 

"I was saying you lack control of yourself."

 

Arya's jaw dropped open. "I do not!"

 

"You think you know best. There’s a difference between confidence and tyranny.”

 

“What you call tyranny I call caring about my pack.”

 

“Your pack! _Your_ pack. There’s more to a pack than just the leader. You’d make a fine alpha until you were challenged and then you’d get angry and strike out on your own and what would happen to your pack then?”

 

"What would you know about it, being a lone wolf all those years?”

 

"You're the wolf. I'm a dog." He retrieved his shield and held it out in front of him. "See those three? They didn't take down a lioness by bickering with each other."

 

Arya looked like she was about to argue but, to Sansa's relief, she asked, "They're three specific dogs? Whose?"

 

"My grandfather's. Tytos Lannister was attacked by a lioness. My grandfather was his kennelmaster and his dogs saved his lord's life but not their own. My grandfather himself lost a leg but gained a keep and a name. I thought you'd have heard this by now."

 

"Sansa doesn't tell me any of the good stuff."

 

Sandor huffed. "She's a proper lady."

 

"Except she's marrying you," Arya smirked.

 

"She has more wits than most."

 

"Some might say it's a lack of control."

 

"Arya!" Sansa chided.

 

"I'm just suggesting it's a family trait, and one he apparently values when it works to his advantage."

 

“Family trait,” Sandor repeated, not listening.

 

Sansa crossed over to her sister and hissed under her breath, “Arya, you apologize to Sandor right now!"

 

Arya wrinkled her nose but turned and said, “You know you’re part of my pack now, right? You have been for a long time.”

 

Sansa saw the look that flashed across Sandor’s face but all he said was, “You’ve given me an idea, wolf girl.”

 

The next day, Sandor called both Arya and Rickon to the yard. "Today you're going to train together."

 

He handed Rickon a map he'd made.

 

"Why does  _he_ get the map?" Arya complained.

 

"Because he's in charge today. Your sister Sansa has been captured -"

 

"She's right  _there_ ," Arya grumbled, arms crossed.

 

"I'm the only source of intelligence you have and I say she's been captured," Sandor barked, scowling at them, a dare in his eyes.

 

There being no further interruption, Sandor went on. "Your mission is to retrieve her. Her location is marked on the map. Bring me back the white sash that's tied to a tree there in two hours' time."

 

"What supplies do we have?" Rickon asked.

 

Sandor nodded in approval. "Very good." He listed the provisions at their disposal and where they could find more.

 

"And there are enemies in the area, I suppose," Arya said.

 

"Would your allies capture your sister?" Sandor retorted, pointing out the locations and approximate numbers of foe-men.

 

Rickon and Arya asked a few more questions and then headed out, squabbling over who was going to hold the map and where they should head first.

 

"Two hours!" Sandor called after them.

 

When they were clear of the yard, Sansa asked, "Do you think they'll do it?"

 

Sandor shrugged. "They might if they work together." He blew out a breath. "They both need to learn to follow direction. Rickon might learn how hard it is to lead if the she-wolf doesn't desert him."

 

"Arya wouldn't desert our brother."

 

Sandor harrumphed. "She has to learn to be a foot soldier, too, not just the leader."

 

Sansa didn't argue.

 

"Most men don't want to be in charge once they get a taste of it," Sandor went on. "Not those two. Their confidence would put Cersei Lannister to shame."

 

Sansa smiled ruefully. "You have a considerable task ahead of you. I hope their stubbornness doesn't wear you down."

 

Sandor seemed surprised. "I'm glad for the work, little bird. I could not be worthy of you with nothing to do."

 

Sansa wanted to disagree but she knew he was right, though Sandor would not be Sandor with nothing to do. Idleness didn't suit him. "I could not admire you as I do if you felt differently," she said, surprising herself. There was so much hard work to be done. It was not what the storybooks had promised happiness would look like but Sansa felt she had a worthy purpose. Knowing Sandor believed the same and that they shared a common goal made their bond feel even stronger and Sansa was all the more satisfied for it.

 

An hour and a half later, Arya and Rickon returned, Arya waiving the white sash in Sandor’s face. “And you thought we couldn’t do it!”

 

“I knew you could.”

 

“Oh yeah? How?” Arya eyed him. “And don’t say because you taught us.”

 

“Pack instinct.”

 

*

 

Bran could not hide his skepticism when Sandor insisted Bran return to riding on his own. Sansa's brow furrowed in worry as well as she stroked Stranger's mane but she remained silent. Bran's horse crunched on an apple Sansa had given her.

 

"A commander needs to be independent," Sandor insisted. "Cling to Hodor or someone else and an enemy will have two targets. And being you're a Stark, you'll try to save your companion before yourself. No, you need to learn to ride alone."

 

"But if I fall off the horse -"

 

"It's the only way."

 

"Yes, but what if -"

 

"We'll come up with something." Sandor sat on the ground opposite Bran and slowly sliced the air here and there with his sword.

 

"What are you doing? Bran asked.

 

"Figuring out balance and reach."

 

"They won't matter much if I'm trampled by a horse."

 

"You won't be trampled if you can keep the horses away from you. They won't run into a moving blade."

 

Bran pressed his lips together and looked away.

 

"Let me see you do it," Sandor suggested.

 

Bran raised the sword he'd been given and made some halfhearted swings.

 

"Hmm," Sandor murmured.

 

"Hmm what?" 

 

"We need to strengthen your back and arm muscles. You'll need to be able to hold your sword above your shoulder more often than most, especially if you end up on the ground. Lay on your stomach."

 

"No."

 

Sandor dropped his eyes to the dirt with a meaningful look.

 

"It's filthy out here!"

 

"Not as filthy as a battlefield."

 

Bran frowned but pushed himself forward and then turned to look at Sandor, displeasure on every feature.

 

"Now push your body up with your arms."

 

Bran did.

 

"Now do it forty-nine more times."

 

" _What?_ " Bran flopped onto the ground, incredulous and annoyed. "No, I'm -"

 

"You're not going to do it? Fine. Then get on your horse and ride away."

 

Bran's eyes rose to the stirrups dangling from his mount.

 

"They're far away, aren't they?" Sandor observed conversationally.

 

Bran glared at him. "I would look ridiculous trying to pull myself up. Men won't follow a commander who can't even mount his own horse."

 

"You'll look more ridiculous just laying there waiting for someone to help you."

 

"Maisy's not so high," Bran said, looking at his apple-eating horse.

 

"No, but she's not a warhorse, which your father has agreed to buy for you."

 

Bran's eyes lit up. "He has?"

 

"Yes. The three of us will choose one together, and it will undoubtedly be taller than Maisy so you'll have a higher climb."

                                                       

"How will I get up there?

 

"Netting," Sansa said suddenly, the thought not fully formed in her mind.

 

"Netting?" asked Sandor.

 

"Chain or leather netting. You could attach it at multiple points, which would spread its weight, and Bran could pull up on it with both hands. We'd just need to figure out a way to release it so he could reach it. It would be very much like bustling a gown."

 

Sandor smiled at her, pride in his eyes.

 

Bran took to the challenge. He and Sandor devised a saddle, drawing from the one Tyrion Lannister had designed for himself, and sought advice from Ned and master-of-horse, Hullen. Mikken and Gendry were consulted on how a net capable of holding Bran's weight could be constructed and attached.

 

That part of his martial education, Bran enjoyed. Sansa knew he was infinitely less pleased when Sandor hung a length of knotted rope from a tree and made Bran climb it several times each day. His displeasure grew when Sandor took the knots out. 

 

*

 

Despite the unspoken truth that Sandor would always protect Sansa, she was pleased and proud that he took her training as seriously as he did the others' (though she, too, hated the rope climb). His first order of business was to improve her horsewomanship. Her hips and thighs ached after long hours in and out of the saddle. Sandor would signal her mare to suddenly dart forward, or stop, or turn so quickly Sansa was almost thrown to the ground. They rode at break-neck speeds through open fields and woods alike. Sometimes Sandor would have Stranger crowd Sansa's horse so she could practice maintaining control and avoid having her reins seized. 

 

One day, Sandor asked her to climb atop Stranger.

 

"Oh, no, I couldn't!" she insisted.

 

"You may need to commandeer someone else's horse to get away or get help," Sandor said reasonably. "They won't all be docile mares, either."

 

When they trained, Sandor always had her mount and dismount on her own and Sansa stared at Stranger with an apprehension she hadn't felt in a long, long time. The black courser threw his head but otherwise remained still. Stranger's attitude toward Sansa had grown to be marginally warmer than tolerance but taking charge and riding him was a far cry from brushing his mane and feeding him apples with Sandor nearby. Sansa hoisted herself up with an unladylike grunt and felt like she'd mounted a tower. She was quite insecure without Sandor in front of or behind her to keep her steady. She felt ready to slip out of the saddle at any moment and the ground was so far away.

 

"Go on, then," Sandor said and Sansa had barely hugged her knees in when Stranger began to advance. Her instinct was to throw her arms around the courser's thick neck and hold on for dear life but, as soon as she leaned forward, Stranger streaked ahead. Sansa panicked and it took every ounce of her will to summon her training as she was bumped and bounced and jostled, the terrain blurring around her. "Whoa!" she cried, more out of beseechment than command. Regardless, the warhorse slowed down, his large eye seeming to challenge her as he threw her a glance. Sansa caught her breath and then led Stranger through a series of drills. He followed her commands but she never lost the feeling that it was condescension on his part rather than mastery on hers. 

 

Soon Stranger was just one of dozens of horses that Sansa rode. She still preferred pretty palfreys with a dainty trot but her appreciation for muscular destriers and lightning-quick coursers was growing. Sometimes she'd allow herself to imagine what it must be like to be Sandor, so tall and strong, clad in fine armor with his fearsome dog's-head helm, his heavy sword on his hip. Atop a courser like Stranger, how could one feel anything but invincible? To have an animal like him lend you his strength and speed . . . Sansa understood the appeal. Battle wasn't for her, she knew, but there was definitely a headiness that came from wielding that kind of power.

 

When they weren't on horseback, Sandor and Sansa spent considerable time practicing with her dagger, identifying edible plants, making crude shelters out of branches, and, just twice, trapping, skinning, and cooking a rabbit and a pheasant. Sansa did not relish that task but recognized the necessity behind it. 

 

"You've done very well," Sandor told her quietly one night as they were gazing into the darkness from the ramparts. Bran, Arya, and Rickon were also on the wall, each paired with a sentry. They'd spent the afternoon unsuccessfully negotiating terms, Sansa and Rickon versus Bran and Arya, and Sansa's siblings were heartily sick of each other. Sansa had tried to coax them back into friendship but Sandor said to just let them be and came up with this exercise to give them space and let them focus on something else.

 

Sansa flushed. "It's not very ladylike, any of this."

 

"You're a lady. There's no doubting that."

 

"Even with leaves in my hair and dirt under my nails?"

 

"Especially then."

 

Sansa gave him a dubious look.

 

"You don't believe me?"

 

"I believe you like me to look pretty. Much more of this and you'll mistake me for Harry."

 

" _True_  ladies," Sandor informed her, "do more than look pretty."

 

"They gut animals and dig latrine pits?"

 

Sandor laughed. "They -"

 

"They recite pretty words like their septas taught them?"

 

"Yes, but -"

 

"But that makes them empty-headed chirping birds. I recall well that you scorn such pleasantries." Sansa smiled sweetly at him.

 

"Damn your memory, girl," Sandor said, still laughing. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair.

 

"I suppose true ladies smell sweet like flowers?"

 

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her in so her cheek rested on his chest. "True ladies are like flowers, yes." His voice rumbled in his chest. "They can be delicate and smell nice but it's the ones with the tougher stems who endure and stand tall to reach the sunlight. Those are the ones you admire, the ones you pick for your own. It's the ones who bend and wilt that get trampled in the muck." He leaned back and raised her chin with his fingers. "You stand on your own. Like I do."

 

*

 

Ned was pleased with Sandor's efforts. "It seems things are going well. What is your assessment so far?"

 

"Rickon needs to work on his control and following orders," Sandor reported.

 

Ned nodded. "I can't claim to be surprised."

 

"His sword-work is improving. He's quick and has a good eye."

 

"And more focus, thanks to you. What of Arya?"

 

Sandor grinned. "Lady Arya could probably kill the lot of us if she wanted to. She works hard but she won't compromise. The girl will put up with a team only as long as everyone agrees with her."

 

Ned sighed. "Bran?"

 

"He has a good mind for strategy. He's eager for that warhorse, Lord Stark."

 

Ned chuckled. "Yes, he's mentioned." Then Sansa's father looked at her.

 

"And Sansa? Deadlier than ever, I imagine."

 

"We've been focusing on defense and survival skills. You won't find a better negotiator, either."

 

"Just ask her mother."

 

Sansa smiled. "I believe I get it from my father, if current events are any indication."

 

Ned laughed. "I pity anyone sent to resist you, Sansa. To try would be a waste of good horseshoes."

 

"Don't pity them, Lord Stark,” Sandor interjected. “They’ll enjoy every minute of giving in to her.”

 

Sansa blushed but felt a deep contentment settle within her. Her father rarely teased her, or anyone, but he seemed more relaxed of late. She watched him as he talked with Sandor. Sandor explained his ideas for strengthening the weaknesses he'd identified and Ned commented favorably on his plans, offering his help where it seemed useful. They were not equals but a trust and camaraderie had grown between the two men and it gratified Sansa to see it.

 

*

 

Sandor continued to spend time with Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon individually, but he also insisted that the Stark siblings train together. Squabbles were common, particularly in the face of the intentionally inconsistent or incomplete information Sandor provided. Much as she loved her brothers and sister, reaching a compromise and devising a plan was far more difficult than Sansa had ever anticipated. Just when they were nearly accustomed to how the others thought, Sandor sent them into the woods. He had some of the men-at-arms skulk around to see if the Starks could spot an enemy and react well in the moment. The men-at-arms were eventually allowed to ambush them if they could, which was terrifying despite the familiarity of the faces emerging from the trees. This, while frowned upon by Lady Stark, was instructive, too. The Starks knew these men, of course, but talking with them as colleagues, hearing their insights and experiences, and working together made them feel like a cohesive unit rather than leaders by birth and followers by destiny. Sansa knew her siblings enjoyed those times with the men as much as she did. She could feel a shift in their perspectives all around. She suspected it was a new kind of respect.

 

Sandor devised various training scenarios while Sansa sewed by the fire in the family's solar at night, her feet tucked under Sandor's thigh, Song and Luck on the hearth rug. Maester Chayle was called upon more than he was accustomed to find books on war craft and histories of long-forgotten battles that might serve as examples. Sandor focused on the terrain, plants, weather, and enemies found in the north but read up on Wildlings and the Others as well. He'd also proposed to Ned an encryption sequence that would be exclusive to the Stark family for private communications. He kept an ever-growing list of topics he felt he should cover.

 

"I never knew you were such a scholar," Sansa teased him one night.

 

"I never knew I'd have so much to protect," he rumbled, putting aside his book and leaning back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

 

"Surely you believed you'd get married one day and have a family." 

 

"My chances of that were small," he said with a smile as he plucked up her hand and kissed it, "since I wouldn't settle for less than the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."

 

"It's a shame you're so handy with a sword," Sansa said, smiling back at him. "You would have made a fine poet with such sweet words."

 

Sandor stretched. "I'll have some sweet words for your brother if he doesn't come back soon. I should just steal you away already."

 

"If you do, make sure you steal my gown, too."

 

"Bugger that. All you'll need is my cloak."

 

Sansa warmed at the thought. "It will be the finest thing I've ever worn."

 

*

 

Robb, Lyanna, and their retinue eventually returned, dust-covered but glowing. Rickon had spotted them first, even before the sentries; an achievement that he crowed about long and loud to his siblings and that earned him a silver stag from Sandor.

 

They bubbled over with greetings and exclamations and, for Sansa and Sandor, apologies for the length of their travels. They were swept into the keep and freshened up and the family gathered in the solar, eating and laughing and talking over each other.

 

"How's the mood in the capital, Robb?" Ned asked once general news had been exchanged.

 

"King Stannis is proving very popular with the smallfolk. He hears and decides matters himself. He's fair and consistent. Some of the lords are wary. Flattery gets them nowhere and King Stannis has a long memory. He's a very different man than his brother King Robert was."

 

"Let us hope he remembers the service your father did for him," Catelyn said.

 

"He was not initially pleased with your abdication, Father . . ." Robb's face grew red.

 

"But Robb charmed him," Lyanna said, grinning.

 

"I did no more than my duty," Robb said, still flushed. "He's accepted me as Warden of the North."

 

Ned nodded. "Good. We can discuss that further tomorrow. What else did you learn?"

 

Sansa was impressed with how much Robb knew. Grain stores, road conditions, the temperaments of various houses, fleet conditions, recently enacted laws. He'd absorbed all of it in addition to some gossip. At first Sansa attended with only half an ear, for she had no intention of ever diving into the muddy waters of politics again, but then she remembered Sandor's mandate to listen to all she could and her attention was piqued when Robb mentioned Lord Baelish.

 

"Apparently he didn't care for King Stannis's scrutiny," Robb laughed. "He's either gone to seek work at the Iron Bank or left to ingratiate himself with the Targaryan girl. No one's sure. The only thing that seemed certain was the pleasure of his absence."

 

_Good riddance_ , Sansa thought.

 

"But enough of that," Robb declared, standing. "I brought something home." He crossed to a sideboard and produced a jug of wine. "Arbor gold! Enough to celebrate with!"

 

Robb poured glasses for everyone. When all were served, he remained standing and addressed his family. "When I left, I promised Sansa I wouldn't be long. Then Father entrusted me with . . ." He gestured helplessly and everyone laughed. "With so much. We are fortunate to have so much. Father and Mother have told me a little of what has been going on since Lyanna and I left and I can scarcely believe it. I am proud of our family and what we can do for the people of the north. Sansa, Clegane, you've been more patient than I could have been in your place. I thank you for waiting so Lyanna and I could celebrate with you and, more importantly, for sharing in the responsibility that Father and Mother have somehow managed on their own all this time." He raised his glass. "To Mother and Father.”

 

"To family, duty, and honor," Catelyn said.

 

"To our pack," said Arya.

 

"To wolves!" yelled Rickon.

  
"To strength," said Bran.

 

"To home," added Lyanna.

 

 "To the future," said Ned.

 

“To love,” said Sansa, unable to stop smiling.

 

"To Sansa," Sandor rumbled.

 

"And Sandor,” Robb put in, "to Sansa and Sandor . . . it's been a long time coming."

 

Sansa hugged her brother and, with his arm around her shoulder, Robb said, "And now, as Warden of the North, I have to know . . . when’s the wedding?"

  
There were cheers, toasts, and laughter long into the night.

 

*

 

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. All of the plans that had been delayed were now moved forward with speed. A frenetic energy zinged through Winterfell. Ravens were dispatched, silver was polished, and floors were swept. Merchants began to crowd Wintertown as guests descended upon Winterfell. The keep, the yard, the great hall, every single corner seemed to overflow with friends.

 

Almost before Sansa knew it, it was the night before her wedding. Sandor, followed by many a wink and a ribald comment upon leaving the hall, walked her to her room.

 

"No climbing out the window now," he said.

 

"Don't be silly. It's far too high. I trust _you'll_ still be here come morning," Sansa teased, arching a brow.

 

He nodded toward her door. “I’ll stay right here if it pleases you.”

 

Sansa laughed. “It would, as you know, but I would not have you suffer the gossip that would follow.”

 

Sandor snorted. He gave her a chaste kiss. “Until tomorrow, Lady Sansa.”

 

“Good night, my lord.”

 

*

 

Sansa was too excited to sleep. She wandered around her room. It was the last night it would  _be_  her room. Moonlight streamed in the window and, despite its beauty, Sansa wished it would give way to the sun already. Every time she thought about being really, truly,  _finally_  wed, her heart gave a little patter. She was to be a bride. Evidence of it was everywhere. The jewelry she would wear glittered on her dressing table. Her gown was hanging nearby with her shoes placed neatly below. She ran her thumb over the fine embroidery on her train and looked out at the silvered night. The view was the same as it always was and Sansa saw it with the same eyes she always had but she was different, and she grinned because she was on the cusp of a life more wonderful than she'd believed possible.

 

Despite feeling wide awake, Sansa went back to bed. She had not wish to look haggard on her wedding day. She closed her eyes and said a prayer to the Seven and the old gods, thanking them for Sandor and her family and harmony between the two. She must have fallen asleep because, the next thing she knew, her maid was rapping lightly at her door.  _Finally!_  Sansa sprang out of bed, eager to start the day.  _Our_   _day!_  She bathed and dressed simply to go to the great hall to break her fast. The smell of roasting meat was already wafting through the air. Servants were bustling to and fro. Tables that had been pushed to the side of the room were piled with flowers. The hall was sparsely populated, and mainly by women, who exclaimed over Sansa as she approached the front of the room. Sandor, Sansa knew, was out hunting with her father, brothers, Willard, Gendry, Mikken, Ser Rodrik, and some of the other men. "The only thing they're hunting for is the bottom of their tankards," her mother said but Sansa didn't care. Sandor would be there in the godswood, waiting for her. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew they would be happy together. Sansa was toasted with sweet wine but she was too excited to eat or drink much and, at any rate, was approached over and over by various people wanting to wish her well. A cheer went up when she rose to dress. "Best wishes, Lady Sansa!" "Much happiness to you!" "Seven bless you and Lord Clegane!" Swept along on a current of goodwill, Sansa fairly sailed to her room. 

 

The ceremony would take place at midday, per Sansa's wish that no darkness fall on her or Sandor as they wed. Sandor had had no objection. “The sooner, the better,” he’d said. As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, Sansa's anticipation grew. Her blood was thrumming through her veins. She sat as still as she could manage while her maid arranged her hair. In the hall, she heard maids giggling as they went to prepare her and Sandor's rooms for the bedding. Sansa was in her gown before she knew it and someone was handing her the flowers she'd chosen to carry.

 

The maids drifted out to ensure all was ready in the great hall. As Catelyn tried to bring Arya into some kind of order, Sansa again looked out the window. Everywhere there was activity and it was all for her and Sandor. The keep was full and the excitement was palpable. People were standing in groups talking and laughing. Musicians were carrying their instruments inside. Garland was strung on everything that stood still. From the godswood, a cry went up. A chorus of direwolf calls rang clear through the morning air. They resonated within Sansa. Somehow she knew just where they'd be, deep in the cover but surrounding the heart tree where she and Sandor would make their vows.

 

And then she saw Sandor. He raised a hand in greeting to some folks who called out to him but strode purposefully into the keep. Sansa was suddenly taken with the notion of seeing him and hurried for the door.

 

"Sansa, where are you going?" her mother called. "Your father will be here soon!"

 

"I'll just be a moment!" Sansa called back, her heart racing. She wanted to see Sandor, to be near him, to capture a moment alone with him before having to share him with so many.

 

Catelyn and Arya caught up with her. Sansa had hoped to head Sandor off but he now knew the family's quarters as well she did and she soon realized that he'd taken an unexpected route and was walking down the hall behind her. The soft thumping of his scabbard against his hip seemed in time with the beating of her heart. Prickles scurried down her back and she turned toward him, walking faster, forcing Arya and her mother to lengthen their strides as well. Her blood practically fizzed and she leaned forward slightly. Sansa longed to shake off her companions and sprint to him but decorum held as tight a grip on her as her gown. She forced herself to walk more slowly and to resume proper posture.

   
"Slow down before I trip on your train!" her sister complained.

  
Sansa laughed. She'd been laughing for days. She watched as Sandor approached, unable to stop a broad smile from spreading over her face.

  
"I'd like a word with Lady Clegane," he said.

  
"She's not your wife yet," Arya said as Catelyn sighed.

  
"Near enough. Now go. Please, my lady," he added to Sansa's mother.

  
"We'll wait for you in the gallery," Catelyn said. Her goodson would ever ruffle her, Sansa knew, but they respected each other well enough.

 

"What is it?" Sansa asked, flushed with joy. Sandor looked so handsome in his yellow cloak that she couldn't stop herself from reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, the bracelet he'd given her long ago jingling merrily on her wrist. Knowing his cloak was soon to be draped around her own shoulders made her shiver in anticipation.

 

He raked a hand through his hair. "Half of Westeros is out there."

 

"Yes. We invited them."

 

"Bloody gawkers." He shook his head but then seemed to realize Sansa was standing before him in her wedding finery. He really looked at her then. Pleasure twinkled in his eyes. "Run away with me, Sansa. We could be halfway to White Harbor before we're missed."

 

"Not likely with all the 'bloody gawkers' out there."

 

"They all want to see you,” Sandor smirked, “but I wanted to see you first." He took her hand and kissed it. “No one could deserve a bride so beautiful.”

 

Sansa flushed. “Or a husband so fine.”

 

“No one’s envying you today, little bird. The jealousy is all mine to endure. There’s more than one squire out there who should thank his gods that I’ve got better things to do today than shut their worthless mouths.”

 

"Is that what you came to tell me?" Sansa teased. "That our guests are here and the household is restless?"

 

"No.” Sandor stood a little taller. “I came to collect my Seven Kisses."

 

"Seven Kisses?"

  
"It's Western tradition."

  
Sansa laughed. "It is not!"

 

“It is. Seven Kisses for the Seven, though a wife is in her husband's debt until he has all the kisses he wants," he said with a confirming nod.

  
"And what a man sows on his name day he reaps all year long?"

  
Sandor laughed. "The Seven Kisses are an old tradition. A kiss for the Father brings harmony to the home, a kiss for the Mother brings children, the Maiden brings love, the Crone wisdom, the Smith employment, the Warrior conviction and vigor, and the Stranger a long life."

 

"I've never heard of this tradition."

 

"You'd never heard of Sevenmas at one point, either."

 

Sansa looked up at him through her eyelashes. Her heart swelled in her chest. "And what happens after I give you these seven kisses?"

 

Sandor leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. In a husky voice, he said, "You give me seven more."

  
"And then?" Sansa breathed, her knees soft, her fingers curled into the folds of his cloak.

 

"Seven more after that." He kissed her long and slow, drawing her close, his clean, masculine scent intoxicating her.

 

"And then?"

  
Sandor looked at her through hooded eyes. His broad chest rose and fell. He breathed his answer into her mouth. "Seven more.”


End file.
